Amendment
by G.E Waldo
Summary: Summary: Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed in part as a child. Story contains some paranormal events.
1. Chapter 1

AMENDMENT

By GeeLady

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**._Story contains some paranormal events._

**Pairing:** House/Wilson. And Father-child (NON-sexually of course!), family difficulties.

**Rating:** Mature. NC-17 ADULT! Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

Author's note: I suspect this theme, or something similar, has been done before in the House-verse but I wanted to try this unusual, slightly paranormal-ish plot, in answer to a story I read as a kid; one that has stuck with me for decades, and it begged the question: What if we were given the opportunity to go back back in time and change just one thing? What would it be and what would the consequences be? How might we be different? Perhaps not precisely what we hoped for.

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_He was so tiny at this age; three, maybe four years old. As an adult, even face to face, the man at fifty beat him by almost two inches; three when he wore his extra thick soled, expensive running shoes. But this small, baby-fat faced boy, sitting under the willow bush clutching a soiled stuffed toy and holding onto a blanket for dear life, was a total stranger. Except for the large, expressive eyes. Intelligent, even at so young an age, and, even now, as blue as planet Earth._

_  
It began to rain. Just piddles that did not yet hold the unwelcomed promise of a chilling down-pour. Young Gregory House turned those large eyes, round with fear and confusion, toward the warm lighted windows of his father's house. It was just passed one AM._

_  
Only six more hours to go._

-

-

Wilson had not meant to pry. Some things were better left un-said or un-heard. Left un-_read._ Yes, House's childhood had been a remarkable one and, at the same time according to him, not all that happy. At least within the home.

But Wilson had not expected to learn of these things that lay on his desk, absconded from House's apartment weeks before. Wilson felt shame at the theft - he would return them of course, but insatiable curiosity had won-out over personal ethics and, when rifling through some boxes in House's closet looking for the dinner jacket he had loaned him months ago, he had stumbled across the, at first glance, innocent-looking paper memorabilia. An envelope from decades passed. Nineteen-sixties nostalgic. Innocent in time.

One part of the envelope's interior in particular that had spilled out and caught his attention, was a folded sheet, yellow with age. Lined paper covered front to back with dark script. As he shoved it and an assortment of shoes, shirts, and a baseball glove aside, a few negatives had then slipped out of the envelope as well. The negatives were in color, but other than the indistinct figure of a slight person surrounded by white light, he could make out no details at all.

Wilson fretted at the two sets of none-of-his-business items sitting before him on his small kitchen table. He really had not intended to steal anything. _Borrow_, he corrected himself again. But when he had opened the envelope to return the mystery photographic negatives to their dark place, the hand-written letter had unfolded almost of its own accord, lying in wait for his curious eyes. The ink was old - purple now instead of blue. It was a woman's writing; mature, neat, the words deeply inscribed onto the pulp, as though the pen had been fiercely pressed down, line by line, over the entire missive. The hard script of anger.

Wilson could not help but take a second and third look. Names and words that made no sense apart, simply jumped off the page and onto his retinas. _"John", "your son Gregory", "the pictures are proof", "so much pain"._ And other words nearer the letter's closing - "_or_ _we'll leave you!"_

Wilson now remembered (a small application of balm to his conscience), that he _had_ hesitated before taking the items. The letter, the negatives, were none of his business. This was House's closet, his past and his privacy.

Of course House had given him permission to go into the closet, with a wave of his hand, so Wilson could rifle through its contents looking for the jacket which House had borrowed months ago and never returned. That night, Wilson had an appointment with a Pharmaceutical Rep', and he needed the beige one. It was dressy enough for business without being formal. It was a jacket that said "I'm a trifle interested, but not really in the market."

Wilson had exhausted all the spots a normal man would usually hang an expensive jacket. But in House's world, once you had come up empty on the usual spots, you started looking in unusual ones. Like boxes of old correspondence mixed with sports stuff mixed with dirty socks. You checked behind the bathroom door and under the bed and behind the dressers.

Wilson recalled hearing the television in the living-room. House had been flipping channels, which meant he wasn't finding anything good to watch, which meant he getting probably bored enough to abandoned the TV and wander to the bedroom to watch Wilson's frantic search, just for the entertainment value.

Sure enough, it had happened. The couch springs creaked. Wilson at least knew House that well, and he swiftly folded the letter, stuffing it and the negatives, into his pants pocket. It didn't bulk too much. Nothing for House to grow suspicious about. House had appeared in the doorway seconds later, complaining about how hungry he was, and that he'd buy him a new jacket if Wilson drove him to his favorite Chinese restaurant.

Which Wilson gladly did. The favor eased his guilt a little. Enough that he didn't break down and confess his sin to House on the way over.

House, happily home again with boxes of Chinese take-out to last him a week, offered Wilson a beer, which Wilson declined. He was beginning to sweat over his crime, and needed to get away before he broke down completely.

Wilson wore his usual black suit, and was distracted through-out the drinks and new cancer drugs talk, finally ending the meeting a little sooner than was socially or business-tasteful.

Even days later, the negatives and the letter tucked away in his bedroom dresser's sock-drawer, Wilson still had not stolen another glance at them. The words _"or we'll leave you" _kept coming back to haunt him. The letter had most certainly been penned by Blyth House. Why had she found it necessary to threaten to leave her (Wilson assumed), husband? The answers were there beneath his cotton foot-wear.

One late night, days and days later, Wilson, unable to sleep for the curiosity, finally broke down and retrieved the stolen goods from his dresser, spreading them out before him on his kitchen table. He turned on the swag light directly overhead and contemplated them over a cup of midnight coffee. Finally, he was going to read the damn thing, prove to himself that it was nothing all that interesting, return them to the dark confines of House's junk box, and forget the whole sordid thing.

But first things first.

The letter. He would read the letter first. There was no reason why he should be sweating. Swallowing misgivings over prying into House's personal business, Wilson sipped his ill-advised beverage, unfolded the yellowed letter and began to read:

_"Tuesday, 1963" _It was no month given, but the letter then continued simply enough with -

_"John", _(no _Dear_ or _Husband_)

_"I've made up my mind. This has got to stop. Gregory is your __**son"**_(son underlined heavily), _"whom you say you love, and yet you do these __**awful**__ things" _(awful underlined twice). _"You hurt Gregory last night. Really, truly hurt him" _(hurt underlined three times), _"and I won't put up with it anymore. Last night after you went to bed, I took pictures. Gregory has __**burns**__" (burns underlined twice) "on his stomach from it." _(no mention thus far of what _"it"_ was). _"Do you see the blisters?Your son Gregory has freezer burns!" _(freezer burns underlined twice) "_He is in so much pain today, I am beside myself. How long did you keep him in there this time? How many more times before you scar him for good? Before he is ruined in his love for you? Before I am? For God's sake, he is only a child." _(child underlined three times) _"You may look at these pictures - the pictures are proof! -" _(proof circled and underlined), _"and do what you like. Throw them out, burn them. But I'm keeping copies of the negatives and everything else hidden (not here of course). You will never" _(never underlined three times) "_lay a finger on Greg again unless it is done with loving concern, and not anger, or I SWEAR, John, we will LEAVE you!" _

Wilson set the letter just to the side, not too far, just far enough that he would have some space between himself and the awful thing; so he could keep an eye on it but not be damaged by its malignant words. But it was in his mind now and so the knowledge of what it contained was in his life. Blyth had spoken of freezer burns and pain. How does one get freezer burns? Did John House stuff his son into a freezer as some kind of twisted corporal punishment for an infringement of house-hold rules?

The negatives. Wilson stared at them. Left as they are, he would never be able to see beyond the markings of dark and light in the tiny squares. There were seven in all, each square a little different from the last. But he had to know now of course. Impossible to ignore their implications, however little of it that was visible.

Wilson went to his own closet, and found on a shelf, a negative photo-viewer. A gift from Amber who had been a bit of a photography nut, and who had owned boxes of photographic equipment of all shapes and functions. The device was used to examine negatives one by one until the photographer found the one he or she liked best, mentally marking it for full developing. After Amber's death, her photographic equipment he had returned to her parents. This item, though, had been missed, and when he came upon it one day while sorting out his closet, he had decided to keep just this one thing.

The switch on its side produced no light, and Wilson dug around in his utility drawer for some fresh triple-A batteries. Setting them in place, he closed the small plastic hatch and tried the switch again. The small screen lit up strongly.

Wilson picked up the short strip of photographic negatives and placed the first tiny square on the far left into the slide-port. At first he didn't know what exactly he was looking at. It was something pinkish, surrounded by shining white squares. Tiles maybe. Sure. Bathroom tiles. One of the brightest rooms in a house. Plenty of light, big mirrors to reflect that light. A good place to take a picture if one didn't have a flash.

The substance of the photo started to make sense. And suddenly it made a complete and terrible sense in form and color. It was a picture of a child's torso from the back, the child's plump buttocks could be seen just at the bottom, but the rest of the figure was all back. A back red and pink with blisters of varying sizes. Fluid-filled bubbles of burned skin covered the back and sides and of what could be seen of the buttocks. Burns. First degree at least. Perhaps in some spots - second.

The negative contained no date, but it seemed reasonable to assume that the body portion he was seeing in the picture was House's, but back when he was (difficult to tell age from such an angle), roughly eight or nine years old.

_"Jesus Christ..."_

The next slide was less distinct, but it showed the backs of a child's legs from thigh to ankle covered in the same angry marks. Blisters from almost head to foot. The next slide was even more horrible but more for what it did not show than what it did. A bath-tub filled with water and choked with ice-cubes. An arctic mish of slushy liquid. A human-sized tub of flavorless Slurpee. Keep a child down in that long enough and, yes, the skin would begin to freeze.

Freezing, when it was first happening, when the cold was seeping in and stimulating your nerves and blood vessels to sting and curl up in retreat, felt at first like the worst kind of cold you ever felt. Then, when enough minutes went by, it began to feel like, not ice, but fire on the skin. That could last for many long, agonizing minutes until the skin began to go numb below the surface. The numbness would finally reach the deeper tissues and put an end to much of the pain but by that time, tissue damage was already present. Keep living flesh beneath water that cold, sub-Arctic ocean cold, long enough, and tissue death would begin. Burst cells, stopped up circulation, infection, gangrene...the sloughing off of the epidermis and dermis.

Wilson, his stomach queasy, looked at negative number three. This one was the weirdest still. It was a picture of someone's back yard. Why in the worl-?

Wilson then saw the reason behind the odd photograph. There was someone in the photo. A small, hunched figure sitting beneath a bush, wrapped in a blanket or quilt. A very small someone hunched there. The grass looked damp with rain, the sky was cloudless with a sliver of a moon in the far distance. It looked early spring maybe. the leaves were still green but the breaths of the squatting figure rose above the bush like a signal from a lone survivor.

What time was it in the picture, Wilson wondered. Late enough that no pink remained in the sky. So after dusk then.

The last picture was Gregory lying in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask on his face, the head raised a quarter to facilitate breathing. A hospital stay. For asthma?

House didn't have asthma. For pneumonia? A cold plus an ill-timed freezing ice-bath can do that to a little person.

Wilson tossed the negative-viewer down with a clatter and dashed head-long to the toilet, vomiting up his coffee in a light brown spray. He flushed and got to his feet, fumbling around in his bathroom cabinet for some ant-acids and popping three of them. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, remembering the terrible sights on his kitchen table. The awful words and the past that House had kept hidden all his life.

Wilson felt sick and, for some reason, like he had somehow just violated his best friend.

_Well, you __**did**__. You, James Wilson, stole House's personal, private property and then stuck your nose as far down as it could go into it. _

As he looked at himself looking back, Wilson remembered his own idyllic youth spent in his dad's store, the large pieces of licorice and chocolate his mom would sneak for them. Playing fireman in a large, treed back yard, climbing up to the tree-house and sliding down the pole his father had sanded down and erected, riding his BMX bike to an imaginary burning building, putting out the fire and saving all the people. He recalled family trips to Coney Island every summer, going on the rides again and again until his stomach churned, and then running around with his brothers on the beach. A seemingly timeless, care-free era of his life

Suddenly Wilson, knowing it was illogical, felt ashamed of himself. Not for the theft of the letter and negatives, (though he was not proud of himself for that), but for the embarrassment of what he had been granted as a child: those basic things like safety, security, the assurance of care, a family who had their ups and downs like all sometimes did, but essentially a close-knit cell where he felt protected and loved. And for those very same things which House had been denied.

The image of a lone figure crouched beneath a bush, his cold breath rising in the icy night air; a child left to fend for himself with nothing to comfort him but dreams no doubt filled with monsters crawling out from the shadows...

He slapped the edges of his shell-shaped sink. "Fuck!" _Serves me right for stealing._

How in the hell was he going to talk to House about this, if at all? How would House react to this sudden exposure of his darkest secret? Likely not good, Wilson thought.

After giving the idea enough consideration, he decided he wouldn't bring it up. That it might possibly be a very bad idea to speak of it. House had not spoken of and that indicated that he didn't _want_ to.

Wilson stood there for a long time, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror and decided it. No, he would say nothing...unless he found a reason to do so. Or unless House gave him a reason to broach the subject. What reason that might be he really had no idea. Their friendship-sexual relationship had been running smoothly for several months. Wilson was ecstatic, and House seemed happier than he'd been in a long time. It was heartwarming to see the man, although still a little batty when it came to his job, enjoying a personal life again. On those Friday nights he stayed over, House would actually smile at him in the morning, and be laughing at Bugs Bunny or some other slap-stick cartoon, while Wilson made breakfast.

Why must every advance forward between them always come with a clause that says _"Sorry, but on the road to new happiness, you're going to have to take __**this**__ with you."_

Wilson wasn't certain he understood why it bothered him so much to learn of the letter and the awful, awful pictures. _Because you love him, you idiot. _And because it made his heart ache to know House had, with the exception of some casual references to some more benign forms of neglect, kept this painful knowledge to himself for almost fifty years, not even telling his best friend. Not even telling his best _lover_.

House was doing so well. The psyche' med's were, mostly, working. His pain was, mostly, under control, save for some infrequent break-through pain that sent him hopping around the apartment like he'd been shot with a double barrel. But _them_, he and House, were getting along pretty damn great. The friendship was intact again, and, a few months back, had been taken to another level where they shared beer, food, television, and after the lights were out, some terrific sex, too. Even, on rarer nights, up close and personal love-making. House was still House, the man he had always been, but with some new life-accessories.

There was no good enough reason for Wilson to mention his shocking discovery and screw all that up.

-

-

Talking to House about anything turned out to be moot, anyway.

House's latest case, a patient he and his team had argued over until House all but stomped out of his office and gone home until his team either backed him up on his choice of treatment, or Cuddy made them do so, to get him to return and work his sorcery. It was a marginal improvement over House's old war-horse method of getting what he wanted: pop pills and act verifiably insane until Cuddy either sent him home, or gave in and handed over whatever he demanded in order to solve the case.

House was skipping much of the worst of his old method to arrive directly at: go home and sulk. In such a state, there was no talking to him. Not even Wilson could shift him when he was in a good and thorough pout.

The patient, it turned out, was not impressed with his attending doctor bugging out on him and, rich as King Midas, sought to make Cuddy feel the pain because of it. Cuddy transferred that pain, as she often had, to Wilson by calling him and leaving the whole mess of House's behavior on _his_ shoulders.

Wilson came home, found House slumped in front of the TV, drinking his light beer, and massaging his leg with forced abandon.

Wilson watched him for a moment. "Leg's bad, huh?"

House just nodded, but Wilson could see by the sweat on his forehead that it was more than bad. Today, his leg was killing him. Wilson could well imagine it had been acting up all day and House, looking for almost any excuse to let off some steam and escape to his couch to ease the demand on his ruined thigh, was what had precipitated his verbal show-down with the patient, his team and his boss.

"I'll get the topical Lidocaine." It certainly wouldn't completely numb it, but it would help. He wondered why House hadn't already applied the stuff himself. Maybe it was easier to sit and cope with terrible pain than strain the leg even more by trying to hobble to the bathroom and back, and be left to cope with excruciating agony.

House un-zipped, slipping his jeans down to the knees, and leaned back, letting Wilson take care of massaging the ointment into the skin, trying to work it gentle through the pores and into deeper tissue. His hands working the sore, twitching muscles accomplished the other half of the pain-relief.

Finally House closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Wilson kept his eyes on House's face as he leaned over and kissed the scar with just a touch of his lips. He liked to see the expressions on House's face these days. It was still a pleasant delight to see contentment there, or quiet gratitude. Both looked good on him.

Wilson sat beside him, not touching. House liked physical affection as much as the next person, but he didn't like to be pawed. "What are you going to do about your patient?"

He glanced at his watch. "Cuddy'll be calling me any minute, begging me to come back in."

"Um. She called me, actually, to try and talk some sense into you. Her words."

House looked at him. "Oh." He turned back to the television. It was a show about things blowing up. House had it on Mute. "And are you going to try and talk sense into me?"

Wilson chuckled just once. "No. I figure you'll have a flash, one of your" He wiggled his fingers in bunny-ear air quotes, "little epiphanies, and you'll be sproinging out of here like a kid on pogo-stick to go test out your theory."

House shook his head at Wilson's terminology. "Sproing-_ging_??"

"New word."

House nodded. "Oh."

"I'm tired." Wilson said, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

House turned a studious gaze to his lover's crotch. "You got anything else in there on the verge of sproing-ging? 'Cause," House sounded apologetic, "the leg's kind of stiff, which means other parts _won't_ be." He pursed his lips. "Sorry. Afraid me and the tripod are just not up to that kind of instant spring-action."

"Tripod? And I said I'm _tired_. Bed-time for me. Coming?"

House nodded. "Be there in a minute."

Wilson padded to the bathroom. With returning peace, he heard House punching numbers on the phone and then "Cuddy? Look, about today..."

House returned to his patient the next morning, and Wilson heard nothing else about House's current case until after lunch.

But what he heard then...

-

-

"What the hell happened?" Wilson demanded.

He had been paged by Chase to a private hospital room. Chase greeted him at the door, and held up his hands to stall the small storm in disguise as Wilson "He's okay." He assured him, steering the steamed-up Wilson back into the hall. "House isn't seriously injured but the guy did get a few good shots in. He's got a broken right malar, some bruises, and he's going to have a hell of a black eye. Other than that..."

While listening to Chase describe House's injuries, Wilson looked over Chase's slightly shorter shoulder, trying to peer into the room. All he could see was a nurse helping a paper-gowned pair of legs get comfortable on a bed. She handed an ice-pack to a left hand. That much Wilson did see. "A cracked zygomatic?" One of the hardest bones in the human body. "What did the guy hit him with - a table?"

"We think it's more than just a crack. One minute they were having a conversation-"

"A good conversation, or-?"

"-there was some raised voices, but none of us thought anything of it. A stubborn patient, House and yelling go hand-in-hand like - " Chase considered an apropos metaphor, finally settling on "T-N-T."

"Right. Someone yells at you - perfect reason to crack their skull open!" Wilson wanted to throttle the guy.

House's malar bone was fractured on the same side of his head where he had suffered a serious concussion/contusion. The type of complicated skull fracture House had suffered rarely healed as quickly as a simple, linear crack. A CT had confirmed that, after five months, the break had finally sutured itself closed again. But still, an impact to the right side of his skull, hard enough to crack his cheek-bone, not an easy bone to fracture. "That ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. The patient I mean." Wilson took a deep breath, getting himself under control.

"I know who you meant." Chase said. "The patient somehow got hold of House's cane and went to bat. Took House down in the first two swings, and began whaling on him after he was on the floor. The guy's back in his room. Security's got him in cuffs."

"So _how_ cracked? Comminuted?"

"Yes, but we'll take x-rays, a CT if we need to, and we'll put in a couple of titanium staples if the bone is badly fragmented. But as far as we can tell so far, House is otherwise okay."

Wilson apologized for his outbursts, thanked Chase, and entered the room, saying "Hi."

The ice-pack the nurse had given House was dealing with some of the swelling but his right cheek was twice the size it ought to be, and his right eye and the flesh around it were puffy with fluid build-up. Wilson could already see the destroyed tissue and blood cells staining House's fair skin with blotches of black and purple that would soon run together to form a pirate's patch. Even bigger probably. Chase was right. House was going to have one bitch of a black eye in the coming weeks.

House just waved a hello. Wilson didn't blame him for not speaking. Opening the jaw moved a lot of facial muscles, pulling on the skin and the ligaments beneath as well, and would hurt like hell when the outer edge of the eye-socket was in pieces.

"You want a lawyer?"

House shook his head, very little.

Wilson didn't think he would have. "Um, look, don't talk but do you have any idea why this guy went ballistic? Chase said the nurses heard shouting."

House shook his head, again very little. Even so, he winced each time.

Wilson gently patted his leg, keeping his hand well away from the old scar. "Okay. Doesn't matter right now, anyway. Chase says they're going to CT the cheek and maybe insert a couple of staples if they have to."

House nodded, just a twitch, and Wilson felt a little foolish for repeating things to House that House would already have been told.

"Um. Do you need anything?" Wilson asked. "Do you want me to stay here overnight?" Privately he hoped House would say yes.

But of course, House shook his head, rolling his eyes a trifle, and that caused him to cringe even more. As the swelling increased, so would the pain.

Wilson nodded. He was okay with House not wanting to be mothered. He didn't _want_ to mother him. But he did want to be near him in case any complications arose. Wilson looked around. The nurse had left, and swung the door almost shut behind her, though leaving a crack as most care-givers almost always did. "Don't suppose I can kiss you goodnight, huh?" Wilson asked. Unlikely to be any complications, and Chase or one of the nurses would call if something happened.

House stared at him. He didn't shake his head no, but then Wilson understood House's dilemma. Where was Wilson to kiss him? Nowhere on the face - without causing pain. Wilson settled for a small square of exposed shoulder skin. It was soft and warm. Nice. "I'll be by in the morning."

House said his goodnight by lifting his left hand again, and wiggling his fingers.

-

-

After a week, once the staples were in place and House had been sent home with ibuprofen and several ice-packs to keep on his swollen cheek, he began to look a little better. The bruising had faded from black and purple to shades of ochre and yellow, and he could talk again without too much discomfort.

"What happened with your patient?" Wilson asked the next morning over eggs, toast and juice. No more sugary cereal. House was the right age and professional stress-level for type two diabetes. It didn't take House long, though, to get used to - and then begin to appreciate - Wilson's gourmet coffee, whole-grain toast, free-range eggs and double-fruit cherry preserves.

House was chewing said breakfast hungrily, though far more slowly than usual and with as little movement as possible.

"You know, you need to chew more thoroughly or you'll end up with ulcers."

House nodded, but clearly irritated at the impromptu advice. "I may look like Federer after going twelve rounds with a Sasquatch, but try to remember - _I'm_ a doctor, too."

"I know." Wilson was pleased, though. It was the longest sentence House had spoken since the attack, and he didn't appear to be in too much pain anymore. "Going in today?"

House nodded. "Thanks for looking after me all week."

Wilson was so taken by surprise at the out-of-the-blue word of gratitude, his coffee nearly washed down the wrong tube. Wilson kept his voice casual and his words wrung of all sentiment. "No problem."

But inside he was delighted to have had House in his apartment all week, feeding him healthy dinners, sleeping beside his warm body very night - even if they hadn't been intimate for a while. But letting that level of gooey love show on his face would shut down House's sparse bouquet of loving acclaim as fast as you could count to two. House had worked long and hard and had learned to apply some social graces, even if they still nauseated him, and to not be so nervous around intimacy, and had experienced some success at it. But he still ventured out into genteel humanity only when he had to, or when he was really grateful, like he often was with Wilson. He still just didn't show it all that much.

Without warning, the vision of a four year old House sitting out in the cold dark flashed across Wilson's mind, killing his appetite. He dropped his half eaten toast onto his plate like it had stung him.

House looked at him quizzically.

As casually as humanly possible - "I'm full." Wilson explained.

House snatched the toast and popped it in his mouth. Wilson regarded him affectionately, glad to see that some things had not changed. Good things _ought_ to remain timeless. "I'm going to get ready."

Wilson walked in bare feet to the bedroom and angrily picked out some socks and underwear. Shedding his pajama's, he thrust his feet into the socks with barely controlled violence. He wished he had _never_ taken those things from House's closet and had never seen those negatives. Because then he would not feel like knocking House's patient's lights out with a bowling ball, and he wouldn't be feeling so weirdly, _fucking illogically _guilty over the safe and loving childhood he had been granted, but House had not.

He knew he should not be obsessing over the pictures of House with freezer blisters on nearly half of his body. It was all over and done with decades ago. It didn't really _matter_ now, did it? And he had seen House's back now, plenty of times in all sorts of contorted positions. Not a scar. Not a single unattractive mark on that long, golden muscular expanse of skin.

Maybe a year ago or two, Wilson would not have reacted with so much outrage. But he loved House differently now. He felt protective and he...Wilson tried to think of a word that fit the emotion best. Finally he found it - he _treasured_ House, and the idea of House being mistreated back when he was in every way defenseless, made his thoughts rage and his blood boil. Made him sick to his stomach in fact.

House's patient attacking him and leaving him with a fat, bruised, broken cheek didn't help matters. What kind of coward beats up a cripple with his own cane?

Wilson, as he often did, left for work first. When he arrived he decided to scout out those nurses who had been assisting House and his team with patient Asshole. Who was still a patient, now in ICU deteriorating a little bit more every day with repeated fevers and bouts of violent outbursts. At the slightest provocation, the man would start swinging. House's team was keeping an eye on him, but Cuddy had already called in a second infectious specialist. There was speculation that the guy had been exposed to something in Iraq.

Wilson strolled through the cafeteria where many employees sipped morning coffee prior to the start of their shifts. He spotted one he knew had been working with House at the time, approached her and asked his question.

"I'm not sure what started it." She said with a very cooperative, and slightly flirtatious smile for the good looking Doctor Wilson. She was a diminutive woman with short blonde locks and rumor had it she was sweet on him. "One moment they were talking. Doctor House seemed, I suppose, as usual." She said a bit cryptically. House she was _not_ sweet on. "I went to get a new saline bag, and when I came back, Security was there, and the whole show was already over."

Walking up to another nurse, Wilson greeted her with a friendly smile. "Karen?" Wilson knew this nurse. She was often on duty in the clinic. She was a long-time career nurse with a degree and looked about ready to retire. She was everybody's grandmother, and had a soft spot in her for House, whom she had once remarked to Wilson reminded her of her youngest son, a loveable but lost rebel of a boy.

"You were with House's patient a week ago, right?"

"Yes, and I saw almost the whole fight." She frowned in distaste. Things like this had not happened in _her_ day. "The patient said some very unkind things to Doctor House."

"Really? Do you remember what?"

"Well, no, but I recall hearing the man mention Vietnam. Then something about being stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq."

House's patient was over seventy years old, so a career marine or army man. House had always had a complex about his dad and, Wilson now understood, with good reason. "Anything else? Did Doctor House say anything that might have, maybe, set the guy off?"

"The patient was sweating and I was busy applying ice-packs to get his temperature down." She thought for a few seconds. "I think Doctor House was angry at the guy, only he was being careful not to react - you know how he used to be."

Shared common knowledge of the rebel called House, who had been working hard to change. Faced with a bastard that undoubtedly reminded him of his old man, yet House had kept his cool. Good for him. "Yeah. What did House say?"

"The fellow was getting more agitated and Doctor House ordered some Ativan to calm him down. The patient, um, Colonel Broyle - he _said_ he was a colonel - refused the medication, and Doctor House finally lost his patience. He said something about the colonel being a jar-headed Rambo." She quoted "Big as a gorilla and almost as smart."." She looked up at doctor Wilson - such a nice young doctor - adding "That wasn't really wise of Doctor House." And then made an excuse for the churlish scruff-man who always made her think of her son. "But the patient was _very_ trying."

Wilson thought it over a bit. "Did it seem like the patient acted out-of-proportion to what Doctor House said?"

"Way out of proportion. I mean, you don't start beating on a man for a few thoughtless words, unless you're sick or a coward." She underlined the last word and that about summed up her opinion of Colonel Broyle. Then she offered. "But it might have been the fever, too. After Broyle hit him the first time - you should have heard the crack when the cane hit his face. Like a rifle shot."

Wilson could well imagine. That was the strike that had shattered House's cheek bone.

Karen continued. "Doctor House just stood there. He didn't move an inch. It was like he was frozen. Broyle hit him again on the shin I think and Doctor House fell to the floor, and then the guy just kept hitting him. Doctor House didn't even defend himself." She said. "He was staring up at Broyle like he was in shock. Like he couldn't remember how."

Explained a lot, but not everything. "Thanks Karen."

Wilson puzzled over it through his first patient's and at lunch, sought House out in his office. "How's Broyle?"

"Fever explains his altered mental state and the violence, but it's not encephalitis, not Dengue, not any tropical or mid-Eastern infection." House seemed agitated. "Cuddy called in some idiot from the CDC."

"Well, maybe he'll be able to help." He offered lamely.

For the present, House wasn't playing nice. "Or maybe he's a moron."

Wilson made no further comment on it and suggested lunch.

House shook his head, stood and started to slip into his jacket. "I've got to check on Babe Ruth."

A reference to the guy's hard swing. Wilson wasn't sure if he should ask it, but he wanted to know. "Why didn't you defend yourself?"

House stopped fiddling with the collar of his shirt, and stared at his friend.

Wilson thought he was about to get a colorful ear-full of "mind-your-own-&%#$%!-business", but after a minute, House just shrugged and crabbed his cane. The old wooden affair with the curved handle had been split in the attack, and House was using a different one from among a collection of at least a dozen. This one had a red stripe. "I just didn't think of it." House looked down at his cane, adding "It freaked me out a little. I couldn't...remember what to do."

It was clear House himself thought that a little odd. Probably the pain and subsequent operation on his face had obscured that memory or made an aching haze of it, but now that Wilson had mentioned it, House seemed uncertain how to answer. He had always been able to hold his own in a bar fight. Thankfully, there hadn't been too many opportunities for those since the infarction.

House finally offered a possible hypothesis for his temporary freeze-panic. "Maybe Nolan's med's are screwing with my reflexes? Some sort of sensory nerve/motor response confusion." He suggested. "I'll ask him about it." For now, that appeared to be all the time House wanted to spend on the question, and he left his office.

"See you at dinner." Wilson said to his back before it disappeared down the hallway.

House raised his cane in the air. House-sign for _okay_.

-

-

"Stand still, soldier, and don't move."

When House didn't show up at home for dinner, Wilson called the hospital. Cuddy answered. "I was about to call you. There's a stand-off in the ICU. House's patient..."

Wilson's stomach dropped a few floors.

"...he's got hold of a scalpel and...well, House is in there and a few nurses..."

Wilson slammed the receiver down, grabbed his keys and broke the Autobahn record for crazy-stupid speed. The sight that greeted him outside the ICU doors were of Security being joined by city police. No SWAT. At least this patient didn't have a gun.

Cuddy halted Wilson in his tracks. "Don't be an idiot - you can't go in there. House is fine."

Wilson looked at her like she was an alien. "For _now_, maybe." Wilson got a glance inside the small double windows. The fevered patient - why the hell didn't they strap the guy down and keep a guard inside the room instead of out in the hallway where he had obviously done little goddamn good?? - had a broom in his hand, the flat, cotton pad type that hospital janitors used to sweep up and down wide halls. Broyle had used bandage tape to attach a scalpel to the end of it, and had House cornered, currently brandishing the home-made weapon like a bayonet, the very sharp blade only inches from House's throat.

"Fuck!" Wilson blurted.

He tried to see the expression on House's face. House stood straight, being careful not to move his head or even swallow. He looked..._frozen_. He didn't look scared. Not scared at all. Just numb. Shocky, maybe. Puzzled, actually, too, and that freaked Wilson out. There was nothing to puzzle out. The fucking guy was going to slash House's throat unless someone did something about it.

Apparently someone had already made that decision. A police marksman had arrived with a dart gun, into which he set a dart with a dose of fast-acting anesthetic.

The swinging door to the ICU was carefully, so as to be noiseless, opened a crack. Just enough for the nose part of the gun-barrel to find its target. With a careful squeeze of the trigger, the dart found the patient's right buttock and in seconds he dropped.

Police, nurse, Cuddy, everyone, including him, rushed into the room. Wilson stepped around the fallen son-of-a-bitch to check on House who was...calm as a summer day in June. He wasn't sweating or shaking. His breath was a little shallow, like the stand-off was still in effect. Wilson snatched up a square of gauze and pressed it to the side of House's neck. On his way to the floor, Broyle's make-shift spear had nicked House's flesh but not too deeply. There was only a small cut and the blood was swiftly stopped but applying a little pressure.

Wilson looked at House carefully. "You okay?"

House was staring down at his patient on the floor. He nodded.

Wilson was not reassured. "Come on. Forget this guy. Someone else is going to take the case." Wilson made the decision for his friend, since House seemed to have momentarily lost the ability to speak. Wilson's tone brokered no argument from House or Cuddy who stood near-by. She nodded her immediate agreement.

Wilson walked House out of the room. "You're _done_ with Broyle."

House came out of it in just a few minutes, finally swallowing and shaking himself back to a more conscious representation of himself. Wilson drove them both home, threw together some quick food, and handed House a large belt of the forbidden bourbon.

House looked at him. "I'm okay, you know. You don't have to start breaking rules to smooth out the wrinkles."

"I'm not breaking rules." Wilson explained, pouring himself a glass of white wine. "On the med's, you're allowed to have one drink a week. So drink."

House sniffed the glass. Even one drink a week he hardly ever took anymore. It just screwed with his medication too much. He's start seeing things, hearing things. He'd rather be sober. But this drink he drank in two swallows. It went almost directly to his head, as he had not touched any dinner yet. He didn't feel like eating.

"Fever," House muttered, "Violence, fear, delusions maybe, PTS probably,...toxins?"

Sitting beside House on the couch, Wilson looked over at him. "Enough, the case is over."

"The case is not over. I can still work on the case without needing to have any contact with the patient." House suddenly felt very angry, as though Wilson were betraying him. "You're the one who lectured me for years to have more contact with my patients. Did me a lot of good - _thanks_."

Wilson did not want to fight, even though it could sometimes be cathartic after a frightening incident. Anger gave the person back their power and eased their sense of outrage at being made a victim. But anger needed to be directed at the right person. "_I_ didn't hold a blade to your throat. If you want to yell at someone, call up Broyle and yell at him."

House was silent for about two seconds.

Then, each word suffused with seething anger and his voice up by a half octave, House was suddenly screaming at him - "_Sure!_ And give him a heart attack. _Kill him_. Good _fucking_ idea, Wilson. That would solve my problem. What happened to "Be nicer, House."? "Be helpful."?" House spat the words out like nails. "Be the good, well-behaved public servant - like speaking my mind is some how giving cripples everywhere a bad name."

House's voice echoed off the fire-place bricks, and bounced around the room like machine-gun fire. House was actually attacking him verbally. Wilson hadn't heard such furious rhetoric from House since the days of the Tritter trouble.

"I suppose I could hurt him just enough to put him into a coma, that's not murder - right? Because maybe he's a _drunk_ and enjoys making people miserable, or maybe he's just a _bastard_ who loves to control. A few people might object to an outright murder, though, 'cause he's probably someone's _dad_, and I have to save the prick, so he can go home and show his family what a terrific father and husband he is - what an all around _great tough guy_ - and they can look at me with smiles, and be _ever_ so grateful."

House topped off his out-burst by whipping his empty glass at the fire-place where it shattered into a hundred tiny shards, spraying the room with little needles of fine lead crystal. House then struggled to his feet and half limped, half stomped off to the bathroom, slamming the door so hard, Wilson thought it would pop its hinges.

Wilson was left sitting on the couch, dizzy with what had just transpired.

Inches from his ear, House had blown his top and screamed out rages that must have been pent up in him for days. Ever since the first attack.

At fault or not due to illness, the patient through-out had brought stress to bear on House's new-found parameters of behavior. Somehow, the guy had broken through House's newly erected modes, and not just the physical ones. Wilson was pretty sure House was battling, and had just screamed at, his _father_, and not himself or Broyle. It was a fury House had placed, Wilson surmised, in long, cold hibernation a long time ago. Perhaps a fury House would never have found a reason to voice, until Broyle had been assigned to him.

After a few minutes of hearing the water running, sweeping up the broken glass and dumping it in the garbage, the water was turned off. Wilson waited until almost an hour had passeed, then he walked down thr hall to the bathroom and quietly opened the door. House in the bath-tub, asleep. The water was cold. "House?"

House stirred and opened his eyes. Wilson had expected them to be shot-through with red from crying, but they were clear. House cried about almost nothing. That was another thing that House had put into hibernation, and Wilson suspected it was still buried deep down in the snow. Or maybe in the cold, dark night, frozen in time.

"Coming to bed?" Wilson asked.

House looked sheepish. "Yeah." With a hand from Wilson, he stood up, shivering in the cooler air. Keeping his face on the towel Wilson handed him - "Didn't mean to yell at _you_."

"I know." Wilson didn't care about the yelling or the broken glass. But he was worried about House. There was no guarantee House would never get another veteran patient, or another violent one. What then? Same scenario? House reacting like an automaton? Very slowly falling apart in secret, until he shattered in secret?

XXXXXX

Part II asap

*Also Part I of "Incompatible" is almost complete (a tropical island medical case story).

PLUS: One Small Consequence is NOT over.

FATHERLAND is also NOT over.

(Some readers were a little worried)


	2. Chapter 2

AMENDMENT

Part II

By GeeLady

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**.___Story contains some paranormal events._

**Pairing:** pair. Father-child, family difficulties.

**Rating:** T. Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

Author's note: I suspect this theme, or something similar, has been done before in the House-verse but I wanted to try this unusual, slightly paranormal-ish plot, in answer to a story I read as a kid; one that has stuck with me for decades, and it begged the question: What if we were given the opportunity to go back in time and change just one thing? What would it be and what would the consequences be? How might we be different? Perhaps not precisely what we hoped for.

**ALSO:** The **Kabbalah** I do not pretend to understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah regarding the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

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For the tenth time, Wilson rubbed his eyes to get the sleep and the itching out of them. It did little good. Working on his fifth cup of coffee of the morning, he finally gave up on the tests results in front of him, and leaned back. Maybe a nap.

This thing with House, or with House's past, was keeping sleep elusive and concentration at work about impossible. He wished like hell he had not read the letter or looked at the negatives. But, he reminded himself, what was read can't be un-read and what was seen couldn't be un-. . . _saw_.

He picked up his office phone and did what he had sometimes done when he didn't know what to do when he had a problem with one of House's problems. Not that it was a problem, exactly. Wilson punched in the number for his Aunt Ronnie.

Rhonda Naomi Wilson had never married but had always taken a deep interest in two things: the more superstitious spiritual side of her Jewish faith, and her favorite nephew. Ronnie had met her favorite nephew's best friend House only once and had immediately made it her goal to either convert him to her spiritual way of thinking, or to repair his sad and destructive ways via her nephew. She was a woman filled with good thoughts that she spread freely among family and friends - strangers too - but was also frustratingly replete with some very old Jewish superstitions.

Intro's between House and Ronnie had, not surprisingly, gone badly, the interest not having flowed both ways, though House had been polite enough to hide his more creative comments regarding his aversion to her ramblings about truth, light and the repairing power of the Kabbalah. Where Ronnie had commented on House's sharp intelligence and stark wit, House had (clandestinely) remarked about her fat Jewish jowls and creepy stare. Yet Ronnie had told her nephew James that she thought she could easily "become fond of that poor, broken friend of yours." (her abrupt, on-the-spot summation of his friend). "He's lonely, James. Good thing he has you." .

Yes, House had been lonely, back then. But so were a lot of people even now. Wilson listened for the ringing at the other end and then thought to check his watch. After ten in the evening. He let it ring anyway, hoping she was still up.

"Hello?" Ronnie's kind, round voice.

"Aunt Ronnie. It's-"

"-J-A-M-e-sss." She said the word as though it were a musical refrain, starting with the "J" on a lilting note, rising to a sweet trill on the "A", then dropping down to a middle quaver, the last letter stretching out to a soft _sssss_. She spoke it as though he were the highlight of her day, month and year. "How _are_ you? You haven't called me since last Hanukah." That last word was another musical tune, but included a gentle rise in tone at the end; a scolding for her favorite nephew's neglect.

Wilson smiled over the few miles distance. Ronnie lived only an hour away. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Been a hard year."

"But you're better now." Not a question. Wilson was often surprised at how intuitive his aunt was. She could tell by the words he used, by the very sound of his voice whether things in his life were good, bad, or _really_ bad.

"Yes." It was nice to be able to say it and it be true. "Yes, I am. Really good actually. How are you?"

"Can't complain, but you're not calling about that. You're worried about Greg, I can tell." Ronnie always used House's first name, and always the shortened version, as though she was _his_ favorite aunt, too, instead of just her nephew's odd-ball pal whom she had met a grand total of twice in fifteen years, and who could not stand the sight of her.

Well, that hardly required intuition. When was he _not _worried about House, because when was House _not_ in trouble? Except, Wilson reminded himself, that lately he hadn't been any trouble at all. "Well, sort of. It's just that - I found something out about him that's really disturbing. House has never talked about it, but it's bugging the hell out of _me."_

"You've been snooping."

He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "I...found an old letter in his closet - it was none of my business, but if I don't broach it with him, it's going to burn a hole in my chest."

"What was in the letter?"

"It's decades ago..." Wilson tried to convince himself to let it go, even as he was on the phone with his favorite aunt who always knew how to word things, and how to make him feel better about himself. "I should leave it alone."

"Decades. Something that happened when he was a boy." Again that non-question kind of certainty, like she had literally read his mind. With House's need for privacy almost bordering on paranoia, no wonder House thought her a little unsettling.

"Yes." _I can't believe I'm even repeating this to anyone. If House finds out, he'll kill me, and __**then**__ go to work on me. _

"Unhappy childhood. Abuse, then?" That _had_ to be a guess.

Only she was right. "Yes. Some really bad abuses. God, it's hard to even think about it." Only he couldn't help it. The vision of a child sent out to sleep in the yard was awful. But a man taking hold of his son's arms and legs and plunging him into freezing water until he turned blue, until his skin blistered from the cold, that was a vision remarkable for its heinousness. It was ghastly.

"What do you want to do about it?"

His aunt was also one who cut to the chase. Yes, what _did_ he want to do about it? Why did he want to do _anything_ about it? What was there to do, exactly? "I don't know, but I know I can't leave it alone. I thought I could, I _wanted_ to - I tried - but it's not working"

"You want to save him, dear."

Wilson was stunned. Dear God - _yes!_ That was it. He wanted to save House from the abuse. He wanted to _rescue_ that helpless little boy. Knock some sense into the father - beat it into him if he had to. But of course that was impossible. House was a fifty year-old man and that time of his life was long ago and far away. Even the letter seemed to have become a forgotten memento on the bottom of a box of House's miscellaneous junk. House probably didn't remember it even existed.

And there was nothing he _could_ do. "That's impossible. It's crazy, I guess."

"Kabbalah says there is a way, a way to alter the pain you feel about it. Alter how you look at him now. You love him."

Wilson swallowed. The tone she had used told him she knew they were involved, and how. "Yes. Very much."

"The only way to settle yourself is to go back there, find that house I mean, where it was he and his parents lived, where it all began. Go there yourself, walk around it, even through it if you can. Even if it's gone, go to the spot, look at the trees and bushes and learn what it was to be that young Greg. You'll purge yourself there in the certainty of what is really home, as in Zabul, James, - and the consciousness of Vilon will show you. You'll come to understand that all things are the way they are for good reasons. God only understands every why."

Kabbalah clap-trap. "Aunt Ronnie, I have no idea where that house is. If it's even still there. House is an atheist, and I haven't been to temple in decades. I'm not sure God will want to have anything to do with this."

"Fate, then. Or karma or the tooth faerie. I know you think I'm spouting out a bunch of superstitious nonsense. I understand. Everyone in the family thinks I'm nuts."

"I don't think you're nuts."

"Yes you do, a little."

Damn the woman's uncanny ability to know what everyone was thinking all the time. She was sort of like House in that way. House was a closet wizard. "How is this pilgrimage supposed to help me help House?"

"You'll know once you're there. Besides, can you think of any way to unfold why this is bothering you so much _now_, knowing that it all happened a long time ago? If so, speak up. Unless you plan on talking to Greg about it."

His aunt Ronnie asked the question as though she already believed it would be the wrong move, and that she'd made that decision _weeks_ ago. She spoke as though she and House were kin. It was, as House said (Wilson had to admit), a little creepy. "I don't know if I can find the time to make the trip. I think he lived in North Carolina at that age. Near his dad's military base."

"Well, with computers and Internet - how hard can it be?"

That was true, of course. Wilson thanked his aunt and hung up, but he wouldn't be going to North Carolina. Number one, he'd have to make up some excuse to leave House behind and, number two, it was nuts. There was no way. It was ridiculous.

The ridiculousness of his aunt Ronnie's advice got churned up in his center with the visions of a very young House being thrust into freezing water or sent out to shiver in the dark, cold night of penance; a painful and bewildering punishment for things he had done wrong. Things he had probably not understood as being wrong at all. Over what does a three year old truly _reason_?

Wilson's obsession over the letter and the negatives and what they meant finally burst forth one evening in a toxic geyser that shamed Old Faithful. "_Why_ didn't you tell me you'd been abused?" Wilson asked over dinner one night, his voice sharp, angry, accusing - anguished. Not a great beginning. House actually paused with his fork half-way between his plate and his mouth.

House finished taking his bite of food, chewed and swallowed, then dropped the fork, abandoning his dinner altogether. Sitting back in his kitchen chair, he folded casual hands on his stomach. "Been snooping, have we?"

Wilson felt like a fool. A lying fool. "Yes. Didn't mean to. I just happened upon them."

House nodded again. "Negatives?"

Wilson felt like crap. "Yes." But it was too late to undo the potential for damage now. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

_Yes, for what again exactly?_ "That all those..._things_ had to happen to you. That your dad was the son-of-a-bitch you always said he was and I refused to believe."

"Okay." House sat forward again. "That it, or do you need to talk about it some more?" His tone was not angry, but was a trifle weary with Wilson's need to discuss everything until it was wrung dry of all mystery. Yet, House gave him the floor to do just that because, Wilson understood, that House loved him and it was his way of trying to show it. By letting his lover spew forth until he was drained of all verbosity.

Wilson tried not to render pitying eyes House's way. "I need to talk about it." Wilson said quietly. "Some more. Please."

House sighed and took another bite. "You want to know why it happened? Or why I didn't run away? Or why my mom didn't stop him? What sort of "more" do you want to know?"

"How it made you feel."

House swallowed, took a breath and then recited the memories as though they were a news reel. He spoke them as bare facts stripped of all emotional meaning for himself. "I was scared, confused and peed my pants the first few times. I didn't understand why my Dad sometimes hated me. When the ice-baths stop working, he used a belt until I stopped crying. If I stopped crying, he'd stop hitting. I tried to be his definition of good, but the ice-baths and the sleep-outs and the belittling and belting didn't stop, so at about age ten I gave up trying to please him and began to hate him, and hated him from that day until the day he died.

"My mother, on the other hand, loved him no matter what and she loved _me_ no matter what. "No matter what" apparently including my father physically abusing and terrorizing me. When I was old enough to fight back, those inventive games were replaced by other, more subtle stuff, like no food for a day if you talked back, or being confined to your room for the whole summer if you spoke the truth. 'Cause under his roof truth was only _his_ truth, not _the_ truth." House picked up his fork again. "You mostly know the rest."

Wilson felt like vomiting. Suddenly, in stark contrast to the things House had just revealed, Wilson felt the memory of his own father's loving arms around him one spring when he had broken his collar-bone, and his mother's sweet voice when she soothed his tears that summer when he went off to camp. He recalled hating it for the first two days, and then having the time of his life for the next week and a half. When he came home, the whole family went to his uncle's farm where he and his brothers rode pony-sticks and played cowboy and Indians. He could not recall a single time his father raising a hand to him in pain. A swat on the bottom maybe, a thing easily overlooked and forgotten. "I'm sorry."

House threw his fork down again. "Stop saying you're _sorry_." For some undefinable reason, _now_ House was angry. "You weren't _there._ You don't understand a thing." He left the rest of his dinner untouched. "Are we done?"

Wilson nodded miserably and listened to House limp off to bed. Then he cleared the plates, wiped the table and busied himself with patient results and drug trials reports for a while, until his eye could no longer focus. Then he went to bed, undressing and very carefully wrapping his arms around an already sleeping House. Carefully and slowly so as not to disturb him. House didn't often do the cuddle thing, and was liable to wake and shrug his hands off.

Wilson wondered if House had ever cried as an adult over what had occurred in his father's house. His father had beaten the tears out of him. Is that why House never cried _now_? Crying was weak. Crying was admitting that something was hurting you, and that meant your defenses were down and you were vulnerable to more weakness and even more pain.

Wilson let a few tears slip from his eyes for his lover, and he slept.

-

-

The letter was from his aunt Ronnie. Wilson tore it open and read its contents. It was a simple note:

"Dearest Nephew James,

To you the Kabbalah may be superstition, but in its words rest truths you are already partially aware of. You simply have to travel the rest of the way to understand it all. This is not a hard thing to do. There are no magic words except for the truths divined in the Kabbalah itself. There is no potion to drink. You don't have to click your heels and chant about home. All you have to do is go to those places that you can not make sense of in your heart. What ever or where ever they are. It could be a thing your mother said that you didn't understand and somehow need to, an act your brother did that hurts you to this day, or even a place a friend once lived. It is really very simple. Good luck.

Love Ronnie."

She had taped a clipping to the back of the letter. Wilson turned the note over and read it. It was a piece of a page from a book. From the Kabbalah no doubt. Wilson read the words and their elusive meaning, trying to make sense of it. At the bottom of the clipping, Ronnie had scrawled: "You can't just read it - you must go and do. Then you'll have peace."

Wilson folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Of course he wouldn't go.

-

-

The driver placed Wilson's luggage into the trunk of his cab, and slammed the lid shut. He waited on the street side of the vehicle, lit a cigarette, and waited for his fare to finish saying his goodbyes. "Sorry about the trip. Mom has her heart set on us all having one final family vacation."

House nodded, but Wilson could tell he was subdued. Did he believe him or had he already seen through the lie? Wilson kissed him on the lips. "I'll be back on Friday."

-

-

_**VILON:**_

_A state of consciousness in which the illusory nature of phenomenal existence becomes a living awareness._

-

-

The house itself was still standing. The steps up to the front door cracked and broken with weeds that had forged ahead up through its hard surface, supplanting the smooth slabs of the man-made to the bumpy pathways of nature. The gardens were overgrown and choked with weeds and garbage. No one had lived here for many years. The house itself was condemned. A tiny, two bedroom dwelling sitting on a small side street in Goldsboro, North Carolina. Nearby was Seymour Johnson Airforce Base, one of John House's first assigned detachment's.

The numbers on the house were still visible - number 42, Edwards Street, the house sitting near the end where Edwards intersected with Dangue Avenue. Most of the older homes had been bulldozed and new, modern two stories erected in their place.

But number 42 had sat for seventy years unchanged. Wilson wandered around to the back of the yard. Here, he was hidden from the eyes of curious neighbors, the fence itself a six foot affair, though sagging grotesquely in some places. Wilson had to lift the gate to move it enough for him to squeeze himself through, shoving it closed afterward with his foot. If he decided to explore the inside of the home from here, he doubted anyone would see, and if they did, would probably not much care anyway. It was condemned. There was nothing to steal or vandalize.

The yard was narrow but deep, stretching far back a good eighty feet to an alley-way beyond more fence. Tall, stately trees that had been cut back again and again still stood, their beauty having suffered under the saw of man. Thick bushes, their leaves turning golden now, as it was November. In New Jersey, already the cold would be creeping in to stay. Here, it was still a pleasant sixty degrees. Wilson looked at his watch. It was late. Almost ten o'clock, and the street lights out front afforded him little visibility where he was.

Wilson walked back to the gate, a little disappointed with what he had discovered or, rather, had not discovered. Ronnie's preaching had turned out to be just that, a collection of nonsense words that held no meaning for him, and no meaning in this place. Wilson stopped at the fence and took one look back at the first home where House had lived all those years ago, too young to understand the why's for anything. For a child at that age, a thing, whether pleasant or not, just is and that's all. They want it to continue or stop, and held no power to accomplish either event.

Wilson turned to step out of the yard and was overcome by a wave of nausea and pain. Gasping, he fell to his knees, his body in shadows, his mind on fire and his body burning up with it.

Then it passed and he was once again able to breath. When next he looked around to get his bearings, things were quiet and dark.

Until he heard a voice, faint at first, just words, indistinct and jumbled. Then the cry of what he thought was a bleating lamb. It grew louder. Wilson craned his neck to see if he could spot where it was coming from and what was making the noise.

The back door of the house crashed open, making Wilson jump. Heart pounding, he ducked deeper into the shadows. Had someone spotted him snooping around called the cops?

A large, slim man appeared in the doorway. He was talking. Instructing, his voice a tab sharp, his manner swift and indelicate. His large paw was clasped around a second hand so tiny, it disappeared in the man's curled fingers. "You know what it means when you disobey." The man pointed to was blanket piled on a rocking chair on the back porch that Wilson had not noticed before.

The large man let the tiny hand go and a small boy of no more than three gathered up the blanketing his arms and descended the steps to the grass, stopping and looking back up at the man above, waiting.

The large man's voice was level and not too harsh, but there was no mistaking the form of command. "Go-on. Seven AM, like always, you can come in." The door closed and the small figure marched with tiny steps out to a thickly leaves bush. He crawled under, wrapped himself in the blanket and leaned up against the fence (which was no longer sagging). Turning his eyes toward the lighted windows, he settled in and was still, like he had done this before and knew the ropes by heart.

Wilson could feel his heart beating in the moment, and his senses refusing to believe anything his eyes said, though his sensory responses could feel the cold grass under his finger tips, and his knees the tiny rocks cutting into the flesh. His ears, too, could hear the whimper that occasionally rose with the visible breath from the hunched figure who believed he was alone in his banishment.

Wilson wondered if he, also, had been sent away, or brought near, to this place. He was crazy of course.

Another whimper and Wilson wanted to split in half. He could walk to his rental car and leave, or he could try to determine what this - all of _this_ - really was.

"Hey." He whispered softly. The last thing he wanted to do was terrify the child. Wilson walked over, keeping himself as hidden as possible in the shadows, toward the small boy who now starred at him with eyes as round as saucers. He never looked away once. He had guts. Or he was frozen in fear. House would have not been so fearful. "Don't be afraid." Wilson tried to keep his words as smooth as flowing water. Pleasant and sweet and non-threatening in every way.

"Hey." He was less than five feet from where...the child sat. (He didn't wish to use the name yet. It was too impossible). "It's kind of cold out here, isn't it?"

The small head of medium brown hair with a hint of ginger nodded once, switching his eyes from Wilson to his father's back door to the stuffed pony in his hand.

"How long do you have to stay out here?"

"Until Mommy gets me - 'till morning."

The voice that escaped the child's mouth was a child's voice, yet...was there even still a touch of _him_? He was there in the coloring of the hair, the fairness of the complexion and, of course, the shocking bluest blue of the eyes. "What's your name?"

"Gregory House." He said it as he had obviously been taught to say it. _Sit up straight. Answer every question an adult puts to you, and answer it completely._

"Nice to meet you, Gregory. My name's James Wilson." He shivered. Even in his shirt, jacket and coat, it was chilly. "Not much fun out here, huh?" Wilson felt an crushing weight on his heart. This was so unbelievable wrong, so unjust, so brutal a thing to bring on an innocent. John House (that's who it had to be, after all; the man who had shut the door on his son's face, Wilson thought, trying to convince himself still that this was just a dream but knowing it really wasn't), did not deserve this boy.

Gregory.

Greg.

Greg House...deserved more. _Should_ have more. Wilson crept a little nearer and was surprised that the child did not try to flee. But this was - what? - 1962? Children didn't run from strangers back then. They walked to school alone and took rides in vehicles when asked. And they trusted adults because adults knew things. They lived within the freedom all children used to know when the world was just a little bit safer. Or at least when people believed it was.

Wilson saw himself performing the act before he had even thought it through. He crept closer, took Gregory by his tiny hands, wrapped the blanket around him, held him to his chest and stood up, walking swiftly in the direction of the gate, the sidewalk and his car parked not even one house down.

In one way Wilson had prepared himself just enough though that had Gregory shouted out, he would have placed a hand over his mouth to muffle it. But there was no need, the child didn't make a peep.

He placed Gregory, who seemed a little dizzy by the whirlwind ride from his backyard to this nice man's car, in the front passenger seat and buckled him in. The belt was far too large for him, but he had nothing else.

Wilson swiftly got in behind the wheel, fired the engine and drove away, trying not to accelerate out of control; because he felt out-of-control. He felt all at once exhilarated and frightened at what he had done. He was a king - a _hero_. The man, the stranger in the night, who rescued his friend. It felt right, no matter how insane it was or how implausible the circumstances.

God, it _was_ impossible and deranged. Not normal at all. Everything about it was wrong. Except taking Gregory away from the pain that would come to him if Wilson had left him there. It might even be looked upon as immoral, but he just didn't care. Imagining his next ice-bath or the next night outside with nothing but fear and a blanket, was too much for Wilson to just do _nothing_. That would have been even more impossible, and an infinitely greater immorality.

_No!_ Insane or not, from this moment forward, his friend would never know another lonely night in the dark, or painful plunge into water cold enough to leave blisters.

Wilson drove for a few miles, every-so-often checking his small passenger. Soon the heaters and the rocking motions of the car lulled him to sleep. He drove almost all night, changing highway's often, driving in no particular direction other than to put distance between himself and Goldsboro, stopping only for food or washroom breaks. Gregory slept the whole way.

Wilson finally knew he _had_ to sleep, and pulled into the next likely motel that presented at the side of the highway. Wilson read the sign. Nitey-Nite Inn would do. He parked, and the sudden ceasing of the car's motion stirred Gregory awake. Wilson unbuckled him, lifting him from the passenger seat and carrying him into the night manager's office. By the time he reached the desk, Gregory had fallen back to sleep, his head on one shoulder, his mouth open in a child's snore.

The manager was a woman of at least seventy. She had curlers in her gray hair but smiled pleasantly. "Hello."

"Hi." Wilson nodded. "We need a room."

"Okay. Just for the night? We have a special weekly rate."

"No, just for the night. Twin beds if you have them." Wilson fumbled to get out his wallet and paid cash for the room, while the manager admired the little slack jawed boy drooling on his shoulder.

"He's adorable. Poor little guy's tuckered out, isn't he?"

Wilson smiled briefly, nodding. "Yes."

Perhaps the lady saw something in both their features that was too dissimilar. She asked. "Is he your son?"

Wilson wondered if it would be better for him to just forget the whole thing and keep driving. But a quick explanation occurred to him. "Yes, he's my son. He takes after his mother." Then to garner sympathy and stop all further questions, he added sadly, "She died last year."

"I'm so sorry." She handed over a key. "Here you are. Check-out's at noon, but, since it's so late already, we'll make it two PM."

Wilson nodded his thanks and found the room. It was at the other end of the motel, about which he was glad, because it meant he could park his car around the side of the motel and there it would not be visible from the highway. There were also no other cars parked at that end, so there would be no nosey neighbors, and no more questions.

He laid Gregory on the bed nearest the bathroom (farthest away from the room's door), tossed the comforter over his child's thin blue sweater and thick blue corduroy pants, and ran out to move the car to the more concealing spot. Then he returned to the room and sat down on the edge of the second twin mattress. He spent a few minutes staring at the child he had just stolen from his parents four hours and two hundred miles ago. Sitting in that stillness, his own usually good judgement slipped back into his conscious thought, and the immensity of what he had just done crashed down around him.

He had just stolen a child. Abducted a little boy.

Wilson began to shake all over with the terror of the criminal act he had just perpetrated. This was madness. He should take him back. He should return the boy to his parents. Wilson even imagined a story he could use to assuage their suspicions, too. Like: "I found him wandering around several streets over and have been knocking on doors every since." That could work. Or: "Hello. I'm a doctor. My neighbors brought me your little boy. He has a fever, and I think he got lost."

That story ought to convince the Houses to take their son inside, feed him chicken soup, wrap him up in thick blankets and care for him properly. After all, they would think, a doctor said so.

But then if his story wasn't believed, Gregory, this three year old version, would again be at the mercy of his father's hurting hands, and what would John House do to his only son to punish him for his night-time "wanderings", accidental or not? Even if his story was believed, Wilson thought, there would always be a next time for Gregory to be punished. And a next after that. It would not end until House escaped his home and gone off to college, just like before.

Wilson came to the inescapable conclusion that, in all good conscience, he could _not_ take him back. But if he didn't take him back, he might never see _his_ House again. How could they be together there and here also? Where _here_ was as opposed to _there_, Wilson did not know. And what else had changed other than this small boy who had been a man - his man - but who was now once again a boy? Wilson hid his face in one hand and wept, a savior and robber of souls.

But at least, if only this: Gregory was safe now. His friend and lover, House, might now never again be his, but he, too, was now safe, or would be if this small child was him. House was saved. House would never receive the pain from his father instead of the love. Wilson had saved him. He, Wilson, had caught himself and this child up in his own impulsive and dangerous act, and now was behooved to ensure that good ending.

The child slept, and Wilson's heart swelled with the need, the fervor, to keep him safe and well and peaceful. Even happy. Gregory would know a love in childhood he never experienced. _Here_ Wilson would take care of Gregory House, just as he always had _there_. He would love him and protect this Gregory of three, perhaps four years old. Tiny, innocent, still vulnerable in the world in which he existed, but now safe from the abuse he had suffered from his father who had ruined him.

Wilson stared through his tears as his diminutive abductee asleep on a motel mattress in the middle of almost no-where, his smaller mind oblivious to the changes occurring in his world, and the decisions being made around him without his knowledge.

Wilson sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve and, shaking with the enormity of his crime-but-noble deed, whispered to the sleeping child (because there was no one else to talk to) - "I'm sorry. I'll - I swear I'll make it up to you. I'll make it even better. I promise. You'll be okay now."

_So_... Wilson thought,_ ...what __**now**__?_

XXXXX

Part III asap


	3. Chapter 3

AMENDMENT

Part III

By GeeLadyf

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**._Story contains some paranormal events._

**Pairing:** pair. Father-child, family difficulties.

**Rating:** T. Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

_**CAUTION!**_ In a later chapter there will be a **character death** _**warning**_ (but not **really** a character _death!_ Those who've read other stories of mine understand what I mean).

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

Author's note: I suspect this theme, or something similar, has been done before in the House-verse but I wanted to try this unusual, slightly paranormal-ish plot, in answer to a story I read as a kid; one that has stuck with me for decades, and it begged the question: What if we were given the opportunity to go back in time and change just one thing? What would it be and what would the consequences be? How might we be different? Perhaps not precisely what we hoped for.

**ALSO:** The **Kabbalah** I do not pretend to understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah regarding the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

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Wilson sat across the laminated table in the double booth while Gregory ate a child's sized breakfast. A scrambled egg, one pancake, one piece of ham, a glass of orange juice, and a small oatmeal cookie for dessert.

The child ate the scrambled eggs, the pancake, and the ham (after Wilson poured syrup on it), and was now nibbling the cookie. Gregory hardly ever looked at him. Instead he examined the remnants of his meal or the cookie in his hand. Look out the window at people walking by, or a bird when it landed on the hood of a parked car.

When he did turn his round eyes to Wilson, they looked up with a indefinable expression. The expression one might see a dog give a stranger who comes upon him after his loving family stopped at the side of the highway and, without any reason a poor dog can fathom, kicked him out the back door before driving away.

After only twenty-four hours as a single parent, Wilson had run out of things to talk to Gregory about. He found himself neck deep in a pile of moral and what was sure to be financial responsibility that he hadn't the faintest idea how to handle. He knew nothing about raising a child.

What was he to do with Gregory when he finally went back to work (assuming he could)? How would he handle pre-school or the teachers? And _records_. The school would want birth certificates and other proof that Gregory was who Wilson said he was. Wilson had none of that and had no idea, beyond knowing he would have to obtain them illegally, how to get it.

When ever he chanced to glance his monster of a problem in the eye, Wilson found himself on the edge of tears. That monster he himself had created by rescuing his three year old friend; this child who did not know him at all.

Years of comforting cancer kids had not equipped him (as he had previously believed) for parenthood. He was shaken to his foundations that he had no idea how to talk to a little boy. And beyond nourishment, sleep and toys, he had no natural instincts as to what a child thought, felt, or needed at any given time.

Gregory House, _this_ Gregory House, was a stranger to him. This small version was quiet, cowering and looked at him with bewildered eyes. This Gregory was..._foreign_. "All done?"

Gregory nodded, Wilson paid the bill and they walked back to the dingy motel room. Gregory ran to the bathroom and shut the door. Wilson was thankful that the boy was old enough to know how to do _that_. When he was done, the child climbed up on the bed where his stuffed horse lay forgotten from the night before, and took it in his hands.

Wilson washed his face, trying to clean off his own terrified uncertainties, and make some sort of plan. _What_ was he to do now? Wilson caught himself staring at Gregory in the mirror. He had an idea. Some fun might take the edge off their first few daylight hours together. "Hey, I was thinking, why don't we go to a Fair-"

**"Where's Mommy?"**

So quiet. So _softly_ it had been spoken yet so obese with need that Wilson's heart jumped like a nervous bird, its rate doubling in seconds. "Uh..." He had not had the presence of mind to prepare himself for the questions that any child would for certain ask. Incredibly obtuse of him not to spend a moment to consider it, and he had no brilliant answers either.

Then a plausible explanation popped in out of no-where. It was an awful lie, of course, but it would have to suffice for now. "Your Mom isn't feeling well, Gregory, and she wanted me to take you on a nice holiday so she can get well again."

That appeared to frighten rather than console him. "But,..but did she say w-when I can come home?" Frightened hope. "I wanna' go home." A child's longing.

Wilson sat beside him on the bed. "You will." With each cruel lie, Wilson felt another black mark against him in heaven. "I promise." There went yet another. God had his pen out and it was dripping ink, and Gabriel was notching up his staff but good. _I have become a child abductor and a liar!_

Gregory seemed on the verge of tears but he didn't cry. Not even a single one slipped out between his eye lids. But he did make a great sigh, a huge intake of air into a deep place somewhere inside him, and then an exhale that showed how vast and hollow that place was. Dried up and left to either stand or crumble. A forgotten water well.

That single exhausted gesture lent to Wilson the impression that Gregory, at even as young an age as three and a half, was used to being denied the things he wanted most. He had already learned what it was to be abandoned to sleep by yourself in the dark and cold. Wilson wondered at what age John House had begun to "teach" his son about the physically and emotionally destructive properties of water and ice.

"So?" Wilson tried to sound up and chipper, but his words emerged like over-tightened piano wire; strained and out of tune.

Gregory just nodded to the suggestion of a Fair, and Wilson sighed with relief. Maybe they could both have some fun for a few hours and forget their shaken tray of fears.

-

-

The buildings of a new town whipped by as Wilson drove his rental car into Atlanta. He was voiding his insurance on the car - and technically voiding his contract with the rental company - for crossing the state line, but that was the least of his concerns. Eventually he'd drop the car off somewhere and he and Gregory would make alternate travel arrangements. Perhaps back to New Jersey. Perhaps not.

Wilson still found himself in a whirlwind of uncertainty and fear as to his situation. Did he still work for Lisa Cuddy? Did House?

Wilson figured, as soon as he got up the nerve to call Princeton, he'd find out the answers to those questions and more. For now, for _right _now, he needed to come to terms with his own criminal actions and his, he believed, noble motive _behind_ those actions - that of saving a little boy from a decade of abuse at the hands of his father. Surely that was worth the sacrifice of a job? Surely a mere man's conscience can survive that?

Wilson parked the car beside a Holiday Inn near the crowded and anonymous center of the city of Atlanta, Georgia.

"Here we are. This room will be nicer."

Gregory nodded and fingered his new stuffed bear Wilson had bought him at the playground back in a North Carolina town.

"Did you like the playground?" Wilson asked him. He had been unable to locate any Fair within driving distance of the shabby motel, so he had settled on driving to a waterside park with a few children's rides, hot-dog booths, and portable stands hung with stuffed toys and other nick-knacks for sale at a heavily marked-up price. Wilson knew he was bribing the child with toys and fun to get him to accept what was happening, finding it particularly ironic that he himself was having difficulty accepting it.

Gregory had obligingly gone on the swings, ate the ice-cream and thanked him for the new stuffed animal. It was easy to see, though, that the boy hadn't much enjoyed himself. He appeared in fact to be _pretending_ to have fun, like he was playing his own little game of bribe, perhaps to get his kidnapper to like him, or maybe so this dark-haired stranger would even take pity on him and let him go home to his mom.

Wilson checked them in to a large, two-bed suite. It was just another hotel-room but it gave him a sense of a lighter, if temporary, soul. He didn't feel quite so mad with guilt and crazy with the need to see the whole thing through to, he hoped, a better end. The bright clean hotel room slaked off a little more of the accumulated dirt on his troubled spirit.

Once Gregory hit the bed, his eyes began to drift closed, and Wilson left him sleeping, himself slipping out to a local Internet Cafe. He wouldn't be gone too long.

Everything around him appeared normal enough, the place he was living seemed the same, though the location he and Gregory were residing was less than what he was used to. Before he could initiate any kind of change, there were other things he thought he needed to know. Did his job still exist? Did _he_ still exist? Was this a dream? Some kind of potion that had found its way onto his skin and into his bloodstream from Aunt Ronnie's letter?

That last wasn't too likely.

Wilson purchased a small cappuccino and took a seat on a high stool in front of a computer station set against a wall that was all windows. Outside people strolled and talked, carrying their shopping bags and briefcases.

Wilson paid his two dollars for a half hour and logged in to Princeton Plainsboro's internal network. To his relief, he got in. Wilson read as much as he could locate on himself. Apparently, he was still an oncologist at Plainsboro, Lisa Cuddy was still the Dean of Medicine, and some of the other nursing staff were still present and accounted for. He recognized a few names.

But not a Doctor Cameron, or a Chase or a Foreman. There was no Thirteen either, and no record of a Doctor Taub or Kutner - no Fellows at all. Wilson took a steadying breath, having saved the most important name for last. He typed "Gregory House" into the search box of the hospitals employee manifest. The search engine's response was swift.

"No record found."

His House was gone.

-

-

The next day, he drove them to New Jersey and headed straight to Plainsboro Hospital. Wilson felt too freaked out to drive to his own apartment and, assuming House's apartment would now be lived in by a stranger, avoided that part of town altogether. He was afraid that if he even swung by the place he might lose his false feeling of self control and calm, and bawl like a baby or - worse - go up to the door and knock. A stranger would answer and that would make House being no-more real, and right now he didn't think he could handle that corner of reality.

Little Gregory sat strapped into his seat beside him, oblivious to his kidnappers mental and emotional struggles, but curious enough about the new town to be peering out the window at everything that rushed by. Wilson looked over frequently, startled to hear Gregory's comments on the things he saw. And not only a child's remarks, though there were a few of those (like when he saw a policeman on a police horse standing on a busy street corner, he simple pointed a finger and blurted: "_Hey- a man on a horse!"_), but also some very astute observations for a child of not yet four. For example he had asked Wilson "How come you don't go to work like Daddy? Are you a bum?"

A derogatory word he had no doubt heard from his military father on more than one occasion. Wilson could well imagine John House curling his lip up at whom-ever he viewed as lazy, non-military riff-raff.

Wilson had replied that he had a job, yes but that he - that _they_, were on vacation. The question pleased him, though. Gregory had grown curious enough about him to begin seeking answers, and that couldn't be a bad thing. Wilson was startled to learn first hand how young Gregory's intelligence had blossomed (and was blossoming), and how strongly at that age personal perceptions and opinions can be forged in one so young.

In House's case, Wilson knew that he and his father had often clashed over his unusual intellect, his rooted opinions on everything from food to the military, and his penchant for expressing himself without reservation or apology (those father-son conversations must have been fireworks).

And Wilson found himself occasionally flustered by his rapid education at Gregory's hands, on how uncomfortably honest young children could be. Gregory often combined his child's naked-eyes observations with unflinching boldness. Like when he remarked on Wilson's excessive need to primp, though that was not how the boy had worded it. "You stand in front of the mirror a lot like my Mommy. Are you secretly a girl?"

After that Wilson vowed to do his daily grooming with the bathroom door closed. He of course wasn't secretly a girl, and didn't feel like a girl (though he was in lov - _had been_ in love with a man), he just felt unsure of himself if he wasn't properly dressed and groomed. He knew it was psychological, a defense mechanism to ward off the negative opinions of others: give them no quarter to dislike you and you'll never be friendless. Most of the time, it worked.

The only person he had ever been around where he felt relaxed enough to drop the facade of Mister Perfect, had been House. House told you exactly what he thought of you whether your hair was combed or not.

"Gregory." Wilson said once they'd settled in so far hotel number three during their short acquaintance, "I need to go into work for a while. Do you think you'll be all right here, alone for a while?"

Gregory was eating dry cereal from a snack-sized box of Captain Crunch. Since discovering the hotel room was equipped with a small fridge, Wilson had run for a few groceries and stocked up on a few things, like cereal and milk, sandwiches and juice. The child didn't stopped chewing but nodded his head. He was set up in front of the TV and a cartoon was on. Wilson recognized it as Sponge-Bob.

"Good." Wilson knew leaving a child so young alone in a hotel room probably violated a guardian law or two, but he had no choice. Once they were settled some where, he could figure out what to do with Gregory while he was at work. A baby-sitter perhaps. More likely a day-care. But there were no records of this Gregory, were there? He would have to deal with all of these problems soon.

-

-

She looked just the same. Fewer lines around her eyes perhaps, though it was difficult to tell from outside her office. Wilson wondered if that had anything to do with there being no Greg House on her payroll, or in her hair, on a weekly basis. Wilson opened the door and entered. "Doctor Cuddy." A simple, more formal greeting than was his norm. It was best.

Cuddy glanced up from her paper work, not surprised at all to see him in her office. "Morning. How was your week off?"

Wilson had come in all ready with a half plausible explanation as to why he had been absent from work for four days. "Uh - good. Just fine. Just wanted to let you know I'm back."

Cuddy gave him an odd look. "But you're not due in until Monday."

"Yes,...just thought I'd let you know I was back in _town_, and I'll be in my office for an hour or so."

Cuddy nodded, not particularly interested in her employee's time-off activities. "I had no idea you'd left town, but sure, fine. Thanks."

Wilson almost left right then, but now he had courage enough to do it. Time to have it asked and behind him forever. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

She nodded, but kept her eyes on the work in front of her. "Yes?"

"Have you ever heard of a physician named House? Gregory House?"

Cuddy shook her head immediately. "No, sorry, I haven't."

Wilson nodded. An affirmation of something he already suspected was, though impossible, never-the-less true. "Thanks. I didn't think so."

He had to at least stroll by it. Now that Wilson knew for certain that _he_ would not be there, it didn't scare him so much. The mourning of him had not yet come. Difficult to do when one was helping that very lover (though much shorter and far, far younger) dress himself in the morning and wipe his nose; now no more a lover but a son.

The office was bustling with staff. No one he recognized. In fact, Cuddy appeared to be the only person he did recognize at Plainsboro. Wilson felt a terrible nostalgia and sense of loss standing there seeing unfamiliar faces. The whole place felt wrong. _He_ felt wrong.

Wilson left and did not look back. He visited a local library on the way back to the hotel and spent a few minutes typing out, first, his CV, and then his letter of resignation, faxing the resignation off to Cuddy and his CV to several hospitals in and around San Francisco, Las Angeles and San Diego.

Staying at Plainsboro was unthinkable. Raising a child while pretending everything around him was normal (or that he and the boy were normal within everything), was more fakery than he thought he could stand. What they needed was a clean break. A big change.

They would move. Four thousand miles, maybe more; across the country, and start again somewhere else.

Wilson left the library with a small spring in his step. He felt lighter of heart now since the on-the-spot decision. It was impulsive - unlike him, but felt correct. Wilson drove himself back to the hotel, getting worried about little Gregory being all alone for almost two hours. It was incredible - startling really - how fast his heart had become tied up in the child. How intensely protective of him he had become over only a few days.

Did he love this child? Wilson honestly did not know. Perhaps, he was on the way to loving him. He had loved House more than anyone. This small, small House needed him even more than his House had. His house, broken so young, but a survivor, had managed fairly well in life.

This time it would be different. Gregory, this time around, would not just survive, he would thrive and conquer. He would fulfill the full potential of that man, and be happy in his doing it.

Wilson heart had ached for House when he had discovered his lover's hidden history of abuse.

Now his heart was flying with the knowledge that the abuse had been cut short by his own hand, and Gregory he would send off on a different path, a better one, with love to guide him.

-

-

Wilson stepped onto the American Airlines jet and handed his boarding passes to the flight attendant.

"Seats 14 A and B. Half way down on your left." She said, directing them to the middle coach-class seats.

Wilson thanked her and settled Gregory down in the aisle seat, buckling him in. Presently a pre-flight server came around with drinks and snacks. "Would you like something?" She addressed the small boy who looked back with eyes round and nervous.

Wilson explained. "He's never been in a plane before."

The woman with the brunette bob and upturned nose was all sympathy and adoring eyes. "He's a sweetie." She said, and then whispering to Wilson as though it were some kind of secret discovery - "And what wonderfully bright blue eyes." Then she asked. "Your son?"

Again the inquiry. Again the questioning look from a stranger's eyes passing back and forth between his own face and that of Gregory's. They looked nothing alike at all, he knew. Hair, complexion, eyes - nothing. But, of course, _especially_ the eyes. Two browns don't usually make a blue. Even a brown plus blue may not equal a blue. That had to be the reason behind it the ever repeated question. His own were not just brown but _dark_ brown, and Gregory's as blue as the mid-morning sky they would be flying through.

Wilson looked down at the child. Gregory felt like his more and more. Wilson felt, in fact, a powerful sense of love come over him, leaving him almost dizzy with it. Yes, he thought, yes I think I do love this child. He's mine now. It makes sense that I would love him. He'll be safe with me. Happy. No one can take him away, or hurt him ever again.

This time Wilson didn't try to explain the eyes away. This time he let his face, turned toward the boy with affection, tell her the story.

Wilson smiled down at Gregory who was busy trying to see up the aisles and craning his neck to look out the other windows. Wilson ran fingers through the small head of mousy curls. By the clear and deep affection on his face, no one would have doubted the sincerity in Wilson's words. At that moment he would have in fact passed every daddy question put to him.

Wilson turned up a smile to her that indicated he not only appreciated her asking, but that he recognized and understood her unspoken thought: _Yes, isn't my son beautiful? Yes, isn't he special?_

Wilson sipped his coffee and leaned back in his seat.

"Yes, Gregory is my son."

-

-

Wilson was tiring of the lie, so this time he adjusted it a bit. Too many lies can cause ulcers.

"Gregory is my adopted son." He explained to the school principle of Gregory's new elementary school. Day one of Grade one was to start in one week. It was an expensive private school who believed in an early start to education. Most children began classes between ages four and one-half to five years, and Wilson had managed to secure some fake records to assure Gregory's placement. Those and the fact that he himself was a local physician sealed his son's spot in the roster. Prestigious parents and students. No riff-raff allowed due to the simple truth than most local riff-raff could never have afforded the outrageous tuition.

The lady with the blonde-gray coiffure and plump figure poured into her form-fitting skirt and jacket, leaned down to shake five year old Gregory's hand. "Nice to meet you, Gregory. I'm Misses Fuleston. I'm certain that we're all going to love having you here."

Gregory shook her hand and smiled as he had been taught, though somewhat stiffly. A good little soldier. "Hi." He said.

The kind principle asked Wilson. "When may we meet his mother?"

Always assumptions first. Then explanations, then apologies. Wilson was growing weary of that, too. "Um, there is no...wife... anymore." Wilson added (with just a touch of irritation to stall any further inquiries on the absent mom) - "I'm sorry, I _thought_ that had already been made note of?"

Gregory piped in with his four and one-half year old child's crystal thoughts - "He's my new daddy now, 'cause they threw me away."

At her shocked expression, Wilson stepped closer to her and said quietly. "Gregory's had some awfully rough times before he came to me. Some children...don't always come with an ideal set of parents the first time around." It was specific enough that she probably wouldn't feel the need to ask any more uncomfortable questions, but vague enough that she got very little real information at all. What it said was: Gregory's real parents were pricks.

"Of course. My apologies. I completely understand." She said.

Wilson thought - _No you don't, Misses Nosey, and that's the way I'm going to keep it._

He and his son returned home to dinner and some television. Wilson had been doing a lot of that the last couple of years - eating in front of the television, and had put on weight because of it. He now had a small pot belly. Being a dad meant spending a lot of time simply baby-sitting.

More trips to the park were in order. Starting next week, he vowed.

For now, Gregory was fine, and he himself felt quite content with things the way there were. Their life together was almost the way he had envisioned it back during those first blind, unsteady few months. It hadn't been an easy road, but they were finally traveling along smoothly, and with only one or two pot holes of note so far.

-

-

"Doctor Wilson..." Misses Fuleston sat forward very earnestly, her hands folded neatly on the desk in front of her. She was attempting to give every appearance of being relaxed but her top teeth kept worrying her bottom lip, hinting at tension. "We are all enjoying having Gregory here. He is a very bright boy."

Wilson felt a surge of parental pride rush through him. Yes, his son was smart. They had no idea yet how smart he was, or would be. Gregory was not his biological son, but still the pride over him swelled in his heart, like a tide.

"However we have encountered some difficulties with his behavior."

Wilson felt fear replace the pride. A rip tide. "Oh? What sort of difficulties?"

"Well, as I said he is very bright, but he seems to display a high level of competitiveness, so much so that he doesn't get along with the other children."

Now it was hurt pride. He was insulted. "Maybe it's the other children who aren't getting along with him."

Misses Fuleston smiled wanly. "I wish this were easier to say but Gregory is aggressive toward the other students here. He has damaged some of their work, seemingly for no reason other than spite, and he has on two occasions that I am aware of, struck another student."

Wilson felt panic now. His son had thus far been a well behaved child. Very cooperative at home and obedient in almost every way. What had changed? "Well, we're both going through a rough time. He lost his mother several years ago, and we've had to move more than once."

"If it's a bad patch he's suffering I am sorry, but the aggressive behavior has been getting worse. Last week he pushed another boy to the ground and punched him in the nose. Gave him a bloody nose."

Wilson felt his stable little world of father and son wobble. "Are you certain? He must have been provoked."

"Perhaps, but the other children say he wasn't. He simply lashed out."

"Maybe the other boy said something..." Wilson hoped.

"Possibly. But still, to attack another because of a few words..."

Yes. True. An over-reaction. The type of reaction that could get Gregory into some real trouble some day if the behavior was not kicked to the curb right now. "I'll speak with him."

"May I suggest - perhaps an after-school activity? Little League, music, swimming...sometimes boys need an outlet for their energies."

A good idea. Wilson smiled, assured her that Gregory's behavior would rapidly improve and thanked her for her concern. But as he walked out to his car, he didn't feel quite as confident as he knew he had sounded.

Gregory was already seated in the car, buckled in, his six year old scowl set on his face and his arms crossed in defiance.

Wilson climbed in and started the engine. Began to drive the few miles to their apartment. "You want to tell me what happened today in school?" Misses Fuleston had called him at work to come and pick up his son early. Fortunately his last patient of the day had left and he was free to cut out early. He was working regular hours at a local free clinic. Not as interesting as oncology nor as well paying, but it gave him a relatively normal Monday to Friday, seven to five job, so he could come home to his son each night.

Gregory shook his head.

"Your teacher said you punched another boy in the face. Is that true?"

He nodded.

Well, that's honesty at least. A good start. "How's your fist?"

"D'znt hurt."

"Why did you hit him?"

"'Cause he's a jerk."

Wilson felt shivers run up and down his spine. The words, the inflection, their bullet-like delivery,...so like his old friend now long gone. "That's not a good reason to hit someone, Gregory. He must have done or said something."

Gregory was kicking his feet against the under-dash, easily reaching the hard plastic with his sneaker clad feet. Some of his eventually height was already coming into play and he was taller than almost all of the other boys. Perhaps that was why the fight had occurred. They might have been taunting him for being tall; for being different. Children were frightened of different.

Gregory blurted "He said I was a stupid brainiac who was just a bastard 'cause I don't have no mother."

"Don't have _a_ mother." Wilson corrected automatically. He sighed. Name calling. Every child's un welcomed rite of passage. "Do _you_ think you're a bastard?"

"I don't have a mother anymore."

"That doesn't mean you're a bastard. Do you even know what a bastard is?"

"Someone who was an accident."

"No, it's...you were _not_ an accident, Gregory. You, that is - never mind. That's not important. Look, if this other kid is such a jerk, stay away from him. Just hang around with your nice friends."

Gregory said nothing.

Wilson encouraged. "You must have good friends? Friends who won't call you names? Someone you like?"

The boy said it - laid it on the table as blunt fact - "Nobody likes me there." But never-the-less the hurt in his words was obvious.

Wilson felt a little bit of his heart crumble. Unfair that a six year old should be ostracized because of his smarts. "Is it because you're smarter than they are? Is it because they're jealous?"

He shrugged. "They just don't like me. I'dunno' why."

"How about we invite two or three of them over after school. We could all go swimming, or to the baseball park. Is that a good idea?"

Gregory shrugged again. "Won't work."

"How do you know if we don't try?"

Gregory looked out the window for a minute, his eyes moving back and forth as though mentally searching among his school mates who might be the least likely to say no. "Hal' might come. He's religious - from Arabia or something, no one bothers him 'cause he doesn't speak much English. And Michael maybe. The kids hate him even more than they hate me."

"Why do they hate him?" Most of his son's school mates sounded like a gang of mini Gotti's, everyone running around hating one another.

"'Cause he's stupid. I mean _real_ stupid, not just the school-stupid type."

Eerie how much Gregory sounded like his middle-aged counter-part. From another life. Over and done with. "You mean he's challenged? Mentally slow."

"Yeah." Gregory saw a McDonald's double arch zip by, and asked for burgers and fries. Wilson knew it was resorting to the bribe thing but - "Sure. But you have to promise no more school yard fights. Okay?"

"Okay." Automatic agreement. There was cheeseburgers to be had.

"I mean it."

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"Ok-a-a-y - " An exasperated whine. " - Dad. I _promise_."

Wilson heard the word, when for the first time it fell off Gregory's lips, and it sounded wonderful. Scary and wonderful and weird. A good, satisfying weird. Wilson wondered if the boy had heard himself, or realized he had even said it, but for the very_, very_ first time, Gregory had called him dad.

Wilson was thrilled and suddenly fearful all at once. Had Gregory forgotten about his parents now - over two years later? That would be healthiest, Wilson reasoned. Best to put them behind him; an old dream of strangers he had once had, now best left forgotten.

Wilson was suddenly so happy. Gregory thought of him as dad, and not "Jim", or even worse "Mister" - his usual moniker for this tall man who took care of him in lieu of his parents.

At that moment all was right with the world, and everything forgiven in an instant. One school yard fight. Practically _expected_ in a young boy. Almost of a rite of passage.

"Okay,...s-son." He stuttered it. Saying it aloud didn't feel quite natural on his lips. Not yet. But almost. Damn everything else to hell - _almost! _"McDonald's it is."

-

-

-

_From another life, over and done with..._

_Blyth sat down to watch the news and was shocked to see her own house right there on the television. _

_"John!" She called out into the yard, where her husband was changing the oil on her car._

_"John, we're on the news again. I think it's an update on that poor man."_

_"That again? I want to finish this." He answered, no interest in his voice at all. _

_Well, Blyth was interested and returned to her TV set. _

_Several years ago, a man had turned up dead on their back lawn. Official cause of death was a heart attack though the medical examiner at the time had not stated such as established fact. The autopsy had revealed some minor heart damage but no arterial blockages. The man also appeared to have suffered a fairly recent skull fracture and had a wound on his leg many years old._

_His blood alcohol level was not consistent with recent over-indulgence but his liver showed signs of scarring from alcohol and drug abuse. _

_He had carried no identification and no money. It was theorized that he was just another homeless drifter who had come into town on the train, as many did, and ended up passed out on the House's back lawn, dying from exposure and heart failure. _

_Matching fingerprints had not been found in any law enforcement data-base and no one turned up at the morgue to identify the photo they had released of his face, asleep in death. Dental records turned up nothing._

_"The poor man." Blyth had said to the authorities. A man dead on __**her**__ lawn. How awful! She had cried a little at the sadness, and the fright, of it; of death so close._

_The police had soothed her, finished their interviews of both her and her husband and taken the body away._

_Tonight's news cast contained a small piece on cold case files, and her poor dead drifter was one of them. Blyth paid close attention to the details._

_"Once again, if you think you knew this man or have any information as to his identity, you are asked to call your local law enforcement detachment. After today, the case is been officially closed as Unsolved."_

_"That poor man." She mused and sipped her coffee, glancing around her perfect living room. No children did or had lived in her house, thus Blyth easily kept it sparkling clean and as neat as a pin. John had insisted on both arrangements prior to their wedding. Having no children underfoot or to tuck in at night had been hard on her, but she loved John, so..._

_"I wonder who he was..."_

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Part IV asap


	4. Chapter 4

AMENDMENT

Part IV

By GeeLady

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**.___Story contains some paranormal events._

**Pairing:** pair. Father-child, family difficulties.

**Rating:** T. Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

_**CAUTION!**_ In a later chapter there will be a **character death** _**warning**_ (but not **really** a character _death!_ Those who've read other stories of mine understand what I mean).

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

Author's note: I suspect this theme, or something similar, has been done before in the House-verse but I wanted to try this unusual, slightly paranormal-ish plot, in answer to a story I read as a kid; one that has stuck with me for decades, and it begged the question: What if we were given the opportunity to go back in time and change just one thing? What would it be and what would the consequences be? How might we be different? Perhaps not precisely what we hoped for.

**ALSO:** The **Kabbalah** I do not pretend to understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah regarding the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

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"Doctor Wilson? This is Mister Churchill..."

Wilson groaned inwardly. Calls from Churchill, his son's school principal were never good, and their frequency had been steadily multiplying over the last year. Gregory, now a very willful eight year old, was on Churchill's "Red List", a record of disruptive students and their "incidents". Gregory had already used up his allotment of demerits and his _two_ "last chances".

Wilson winded his way through afternoon traffic, thankful once again that his boss, a parent herself with two teenage daughters and a new baby boy, was understanding when it came to children, and granted him a free hour away from the clinic to go deal with his own son's misbehavior.

Wilson had hoped things at this school would be different. Churchill was the fourth principal in what had become a short line of institutions that Gregory had been kicked out of. With such a dismal record of disobedience and rule-breaking (even several instances of minor vandalism), no private school was willing to accept him, but the public school system seemed unable to handle him any better. What was going to happen today? They were running out of schools.

On the ride home, Gregory was sullen and resentful. "I didn't want to go there in the first place." He said. "Everybody there hates me."

Wilson sighed. He fumbled in his pant's pocket and withdrew a small roll of antacids. His ulcer was awake and talking today. "You say that about every school. Some of the reason is how you act. No one wants to be around a smart aleck."

Gregory seemed to not care about school or after school projects, or even making friends. He simply fought everything and everyone, most especially his father.

Wilson tried again. "I think you ought to take those piano lessons we discussed. You didn't like baseball-"

"- I _did_ like it. The kids hated me 'cause I couldn't catch the stupid ball. And Coach made fun of me. He said I ran like a giraffe."

Wilson knew Gregory was having difficulties with his height, and his thin, child legs that currently lack the muscle that would later develop and turn him into an all around athlete. Wilson had seen Gregory run and had, of course, cheered him on like a proud encouraging parent, but his poor son really was all legs and arms with little coordination and lots of stumbling. The coach's analogy was apt; his son really did run like a giraffe.

Suddenly a picture of House was there in his mind. His House, much older, crippled but physique still hinting at all the signs of the athletic power-house he had (beginning just after puberty no doubt), have grown in to and so remained for many years. Baseball, lacrosse, rugby, running, swimming, tennis - there was almost no sport House hadn't tried, until the infarction had put an end to all of it.

With little Gregory, at least for now, sports seemed to be out. "You have no idea if you'd like the piano unless you actually _try_ it."

His House had traveled the planet, being dragged to almost every continent, exposed to dozens of languages, learned all about other cultures, tried every sport everywhere, heard the music of the world, seen wonders...

Wilson could not provide such a glamorous up-bringing. His salary as a clinic doctor kept them well enough but they were by no means rich. He could, however, afford piano lessons and Little League. Or swimming and tennis, or some combination of things that might curb his son's self-sabotaging tendencies.

But he was tired today, wearied from the troubles his son seemed to get himself into on an almost daily basis. "How about Scouts?" Wilson asked with little enthusiasm, expecting Gregory's quick rejection of that, too. "Do you think you'd like being a Boy Scout?" On the scale of Hope, his tone was hovering on Pointless.

Gregory played with his fingers. His nails were chewed to the quick. Wilson gently slapped his hand from his mouth. "Stop chewing. That's how you get infections." The House oral fixation was intact, it seemed, in this younger version.

Gregory said. "I guess."

From his often emotionally remote, apathetic son, such a response was practically a whoop-up. "Really?" Wilson was surprised, actually. Delighted. He had not expected agreement, but he was confident Scouts would be good for Gregory. It wouldn't mirror all the utilities of a strong military influence (as John House may have brought to into Gregory's life (in between abuses), and which strict edicts and demands to responsibility his wayward son seemed to require), but it could go a long way in both expanding Gregory's experiences (so hopefully alleviating his boredom with the sameness of their American average existence), and curbing his footsteps that appeared to be heading ever more toward delinquency.

But now Wilson felt some hope that he had found the solution. Gregory would make new friends in a controlled setting where poor behavior wouldn't be tolerated. On the contrary, it would be a good way for Gregory to learn discipline and even have fun doing it. Wilson recalled that the Scouts sometimes took their troops on adventures to other places, sometimes other countries. It was perfect. Gregory would have his travel experiences, and time away from his doting, boring ol' dad.

"Okay, great." Wilson said, "I'll make the call."

Wilson smiled at his son as Gregory bit his nails and kicked at the under-dash. He felt so good about this new plan that he didn't feel like scolding his son for the finger chewing or for getting his dirty sneakers on the Cavalier's spit-polish interior.

-

-

This time it had nothing to do with Gregory's behavior, and everything to do with his mute terror.

"Dad, dad!" Gregory ran back from the bus stop one morning just as Wilson was leaving for work.

Wilson saw the tears and the shaking shoulders. "What's wrong?" Trying to stifle his irritation. This would make him late for work for the fourth time that month.

"A d-dog ran o-out on th-the road and got hit by a big truh-truck. He's all bloody..he sl-sl-sl.."

Wilson crouched down and hugged his crying son. "Calm down, calm down. It's over now."

Gregory shook his head vigorously. Such a thing to an eleven year old was never over until dad's or mom's fixed it.

"Can you come? Please? Please?" He pulled on his father's sleeve, urging him to hurry up and follow. "The dog ..maybe he'll be okay, we can take him to a vet,...and he can fix 'im..."

"Son, I don't think.."

_"Pl-e-e-ease!"_

Wilson knew it was useless. If he didn't go and deal with this, Gregory would never get to school today and he would never get to work, which would be a bad thing since there were bills piling up. "Okay. You show me where."

Wilson followed his son to the main street, passing Gregory's scattered school books that he had flung aside when the horrid event had occurred. It was still early enough that there were few cars on the road, and no big truck anywhere in sight. What few cars were passing going north or south, none of them slowed down to see what the bloody pile of black fur at the curb used to be.

Gregory pulled him by the hand over to the dog. Even from forty feet away it was obvious the thing was dead. There was a grotesque blood trail where the unfortunate thing had been dragged across the asphalt, and too much blood had pooled around what was left for it to still be breathing.

But Gregory pulled him to the very spot right next to it, explaining in high-pitched hysteria, "I-was-standing-right-'ere-and-the-truck-hit-him-n'-'e-slid-over-to-me."

Wilson's heart went out to him. An awful thing for an eleven year-old to have witnessed. Awful enough that it had elicited tears from his customarily emotionally reserved son. The animal had actually slid across the road and landed at his son's child size nine Air Jordan's. Not a pleasant way to begin a school week.

Wilson bent down and did a quick visual examination of the dog, checking for a pulse under the top of his front leg with two fingers, near the "armpit". Unsurprisingly there was no heart beat. "I'm afraid he's already dead, Gregory. But he's not suffering anymore, and he probably died instantly. I doubt he felt anything." Mostly the truth, some guess work, some outright fibs.

Gregory was hiccupping, but not crying anymore. "Are you" - _**hic'!**_ - "shu-sure?"

"I'm a doctor, son. I'm sure." Gregory seemed even more devastated now that knew the dog was dead.

Wilson stood up and draped one arm over his son's thin shoulders. "Tell you what. We'll cover him with a blanket or something, and I'll call the animal control people. They'll come take him off the road. He'll be buried properly. Okay?"

Gregory stared down at the animal unblinkingly, as though temporarily blind to everything else around him. He said meekly, "Okay."

With the dog covered and the call made, Wilson drove Gregory to school to drop him off. "Are you sure you're okay, son? That dog didn't suffer, I'm sure of it."

"I know. I'm okay." He was very subdued, and he still looked a little pale.

"Okay." Wilson didn't feel completely sure, but school had already started and he was now over an hour late for work. Gregory took his books, climbed from the car and went inside the school doors.

Gregory had a compulsory after-school soccer practice, so Wilson decided to pick him up in the car and they'd go for burgers and ice-cream. Gregory agreed easily enough but was silent during the drive home.

"How was school today?"

"Okay I guess."

"Didn't Miss Johnson take you guys to the museum today?"

"Yeah."

"How was that?"

"We looked at statues. Mostly lady statues. Some had no arms."

Wilson regretted bringing it up. Their local museum had a lot of original local work and a lot of replica's of famous pieces. He wondered if Gregory would associate statues of armless people to a dead dog at the side of the highway.

"Some of them are very old," Wilson explained, "and must have gotten broken."

"Yeah." Gregory didn't seem to care one way or another, but then he volunteered "Miss Johnson told us about a painter who got locked up in a church and was forced to paint pictures on the walls and the ceiling. He was stuck in there for twenty years." Gregory sounded both awe-struck and disturbed by it. Twenty years to an eleven year old was two life-times.

Gregory had to be speaking of Michelangelo. A very depressing and strangely morbid story for a teacher to share with a child. Wilson thought he might have to have a chat with Miss Johnson.

Gregory looked over at him, and Wilson could tell from the corner of his eye that his son wanted to ask him something but for some reason was afraid to. So he gave him an in. "Did anything else happen today?"

Gregory shook his head but finally, after a few more blocks of silence, Gregory asked very meekly "Is my mom dead?"

Horror shot through Wilson's chest like a machete. Wilson swallowed, trying to find the right words to answer but not. "Um, why,...why would you ask me that?"

"I just wondered."

"You were never curious before. Why now?" The dog, it had to be the dog. Or the armless statues, frozen in what must have struck Gregory's mind as a death pose.

"I was too scared to ask before. You told me she was sick, but you never took me back. It was like you were mad at me or something for asking, so I thought maybe you'd be mad at me some more if I asked again."

Wilson felt like a criminal. Even so, he was about to compound his crime. "She was sick, Gregory. She was dying. I wanted to rescue you from that."

"Oh."

Gregory's birthday was coming up. He would be twelve. "Is there anything special you want for your birthday?"

The distraction seemed to work, because Gregory's eyes lit up again and shone their brightest blue. "Can I have anything I want?"

"Within reason. We're not rich."

"A new bike. A mountain bike, like Taylor's."

Taylor again. Everything Taylor got, Gregory wanted. Taylor was his son's new best friend. One of the hardest things for a parent to see is their child ostracized or friendless. For years Gregory had played by himself, read by himself in his room, and spent almost all of his off-school hours alone, having to entertain himself.

Finally, one glorious new school day, Taylor had moved into the neighborhood and the two had hit it off in a flash. Taylor was a little rambunctious and not too bright, (in fact rumor was he had been kept back a year or so due to a learning disability - what type Wilson did not know), but as least Gregory had, at last, full time friend.

Wilson thanked Providence for small favors.

-

-

"Doctor Wilson, your son is missing."

Wilson was glad he wasn't driving when he heard the disquieting news. Gregory was on a special outing with his Boy Scout troop - which was a day long bike ride to a local wild-life reserve. The troop had planned this bike-trail event and nature observation lesson for months; marking the route, deciding what food to bring, what games they would play, and what Scout tasks they might learn. A twelve hour "mission".

Wilson found he needed to sit down immediately. "Missing?" What the hell did "missing" mean exactly? He closed the clinic room door, asking his next patient to wait-for-a-moment-please-be-right-with-you.

The Scout Master continued. "Gregory and Taylor both took off this afternoon after lunch on their bikes. We haven't seen them since."

It was almost five o'clock. "When did they go?" Wilson knew Taylor had been getting into more and more trouble lately, and dragging Gregory along with him on most of it.

"They were first noticed missing just after afternoon roll call. All the troops had paired up to take up observation posts of the surrounding park and record any wild-life they saw..."

Naturally Taylor and Gregory would have paired with each other. Taylor was almost three years older than Gregory, but physically about the same size. For the last year and a half, the boys had gone everywhere together. One didn't make a move unless the other knew. At first, it had seemed like a miracle. It was terrific to see Gregory with a best friend and happy.

But Wilson soon learned that all was not so rosy. The boys were inseparable - true - and, unfortunately, that had swiftly become the first of many problems. Taylor took Gregory everywhere all right, even to some places neither of them should have gone, like to the local Electri-Cade even though Gregory was forbidden as punishment for having cheated on a school project that had earned him a failing grade in chemistry.

_"Taylor talked me into it!"_

Lately his son always had that, or some other excuse, ready at hand. Or he would feign a poor memory - (his son who could recite word for word the entire script from the latest Transformer movie) - _"I didn't know I wasn't suppose to be there, Taylor said it was okay, and he's almost fourteen." _As though that made everything Taylor said or did all right. Problem was, at that age, every fourteen year old thinks he or she is right about everything. Gregory was just twelve and anxious to be as old and as "street wise", as his best friend. That was usually the root of every misdeed. Taylor was a bad example and worse influence.

Wilson listened to the Scout Master describe the goings-on with Taylor and his son. Things most of which Wilson already knew about.

But some things were new. Such as, according to Scout Master Thompson, orders having to be repeated to Gregory again and again. Gregory claiming to have lost his Scout Knife when in fact he and Taylor had both slipped away to a nearby teenage hang-out, sold their knives and then paid an older kid to buy them a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. They'd each smoked two or three cigarettes and then mashed the rest of them on the road on their way back to the troop "home-base".

Thompson said, sounding both worried and fed up with Gregory and the other boy - "Look, Doctor Wilson, we know Gregory's had some rough times, but even so his behavior must improve or we will have to take his patch. Taylor has already blown his one chance to redeem himself. He'll be gone for sure."

Wilson's shoulders were tight with worry and his spirit slumped with the disheartening truth that Gregory was turning into a hellion, and he had no idea what to do about it. The boy seemed hell bent on going his own way every minute, and defying all reason. Even bribes didn't work anymore.

Several hours later, the boys were picked up at a local theater watching a Hulk marathon. Gregory was driven home in a police car. As through the keyhole Wilson watched the officer escort his wayward son to the door, he felt a father's guilt and despair. And the overwhelming futility of trying to be a good parent. He loved Gregory so much, and really had tried to show it, too, all these years. But the last year or so, Gregory hadn't seem to want it.

The officer knocked on the door, and Wilson opened, ready to listen to the same professional advice he had heard countless times already, and making all the same grateful noises and promises of "Gregory will do better from now-on - count on it." Knowing full well it was a lie. He had come to the dreadful conclusion that he did not understand his son, found it impossible to communicate with him, and could control him even less.

Gregory slunk into the house and went straight to his bedroom. Wilson thanked the officer, shook his hand and saw him out.

Wilson waited in the hall, giving Gregory a few minutes to get undressed and climb in bed.

His son knew the routine - right to bed with no supper; lecture to follow. Only Gregory didn't seem to care about either anymore, and his attitude and skin and bones frame clearly showed it.

Wilson sighed wearily. _My, son, the fugitive. _

_-_

_-_

After calling his son's cell phone a dozen times and Taylor's parent's house half that, Wilson finally jumped in his car and drove around all night, searching the downtown streets for the slim but slowly filling out frame of his run away boy. He thought he understood loss, hurt, shame and fear, but this was a whole new level of agony. Gregory had not returned home from his Junior High school, and by six o'clock, Wilson was pacing with worry. By ten he was calling the police.

It was the same story. "Well, you say he's almost fifteen? Sir, most boys that age try to stretch their wings a little. Defy their parents to see how much they can get away with." The calm drone of the Sergeant on the other end of the phone said. Wilson ground his teeth to the nub trying not to scream at the lazy cop to get his lazy ass off his padded chair and help him find his son.

"He's still a minor of course, and that makes for some mitigating circumstances, but we can't launch an Amber alert. Number one, no one reported seeing your son get into a vehicle. He was seen, according to you, at his school during lunch hour with his friend, isn't that right?"

Wilson had to admit it was true, his world crashing down piece by piece.

"What was this other boy's name?"

"Taylor Miller. He's a known delinquent who's spent time in Juvenile Hall more than once."

"So Gregory isn't out there alone, is he?"

Wilson didn't even respond to that one.

"We can send his description and that of the other youth to our regular patrols and they can keep an eye out for him. But for now that's all we can do. Once he's been missing for twenty-four hours, we can expand that, but right now..."

Wilson hung up without thanking him, jumped in his car and had been driving every since, scanning the streets with bloodshot eyes, looking for a fourteen-almost fifteen-year-old who should be home in bed drooling over Lindsay Lohan, not running the streets with his wild, partying friend, doing who knew what dangerous stunt or going into who knew what dangerous bar.

With Gregory as tall as he now was, almost as tall as his dad, he could easily pass for eighteen or nineteen. With a fake ID, he could probably stretch it to twenty-one. Wilson knew Taylor was already drinking, smoked pot and ran around with boys much older than him. Boys who were already over twenty-one, had money, and so could regularly drink, get drugs or pretty well anything else they wanted. Gregory was just about to turn fifteen in two months.

Wilson found himself stopping the car, getting out and looking in the ditches now, praying he wouldn't but terrified he might find Gregory's body face down in a slew. This was 2010, and the television was crowded with documentaries about prowlers and pedophiles, robbers, rapists and murderers; hundreds of them, it seemed, one to a corner, all hunting for young, attractive boys about Gregory's age to use and then dispose of.

Wilson tried to thrust the images out of his mind. Gregory was _fine_. He was just playing hooky from Dad, and having some fun. _By the time I get home, I'll find him curled up in his bed asleep. The next day he'll apologize and eat the breakfast I'll cook for him just like nothing had happened. We'll be pals again._

Wilson drove for hours, finally he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore and drove home. Maybe his son had called? He hadn't called Wilson's cell, but then he might have simply forgot he had his own cellular phone in his pocket.

Wilson knew it was not likely. Gregory never forgot anything.

Wilson sat down on the couch, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds, he was so exhausted. He was fifty-four years old, and had lost touch with his son years ago. He had no idea how it had happened.

When he awoke next, it was daylight and it took him a minute or so to remember why he was asleep sitting up on the couch. He raced to Gregory's room to find it empty, the bed un-slept in.

Then he head the apartment door open and his tall son entered, looking as right as rain. Wilson walked up to Gregory, wrapping his arms around him. He smelled like beer. "You scared me to death!" He took his son by the shoulders and held him away so he could get a good look at him. They looked eye to eye now, Gregory's height matching his. He seemed fine. "Where the _hell_ did you go last night?" Wilson asked, relieved his son was fine but furious that he had spent the entire night sick to death with worry. "I drove around all night long looking for you - I thought you were _dead,_ Gregory. Don't you care how cruel it was for you to not even _call_ me? Why would you _do_ this to me?"

"Me and Taylor met some girls. I just decided not to come home, we were having fun."

"What kind of "fun"? Drinking again? Pot? Maybe cocaine? Maybe heroin next time? Where the hell is all this crap going to end??"

Gregory shrugged off his father's hands. "This is America. I'm not a kid anymore and I can do what I want."

Wilson refused to let him walk away. This time Gregory was not apologizing or sheepishly asking for breakfast. This time he seemed completely unconcerned with how his father felt. Wilson was furious. "You're fourteen and you can't do whatever you want while you're in _my_ house."

"I'm almost _fifteen_, and maybe I don't _want_ to be in your house anymore." Gregory yelled defiantly. It was a teenager's argument; immature and without having thought it through to the end.

Wilson snapped, slicing the air with his hand like a judge bringing down multiple sentences for multiple infractions. "You are grounded for two months, Mister. No going out except to school. No television, no movies, no video games, no parties, no friends over, no goddamn Taylor, no nothing! You are my son, and -"

Gregory took a step back. "- No I'm _not!"_

Wilson's next words almost caught in his throat. He had to force them out. "_What_ d-did you say?"

Gregory looked at him, his face was flushed and his eyes...Wilson had no idea how to describe his son's eyes. Confrontational of course, but Gregory seemed to be cracking somehow, something inside him opening up for the first time, escaping again and getting its breath, like a seed sprouting but not a good green healthy shoot, a black, ugly growth that could produce nothing but poison. "I said I'm _not_ your son. Not _really_."

Wilson stared at him, his mouth open, his heart hammering, his knees weak. "Yes, you are."

Gregory mentally, emotionally - in every way but physically - exploded. He was suddenly screaming at his father "I'm not stupid, you know. I remember my mom! I remember everything. Like you coming into the yard that night and stealing me from my parents. Maybe my mom is dead, but I still remember her, and you stole me from her. I know you're not my real dad. My real dad was a pilot, not a boring clinic doctor."

Wilson swallowed, his heart felt like jelly. He was almost in tears, so desperately had he wished all these years that Gregory had not remembered any of it; not really; not clearly. Gregory had come to accept his new life and his new and improved father. He _had_. "Your so-called father used to send you to the backyard to sleep in the dark alone when you were _three _years old."

He saw that his words had hit a mark somewhere inside the youth. Gregory bit his lip, shaking in anger because he knew it was true.

Wilson thought maybe he should stop, but perhaps its needed to be brought out into the open now, so Gregory could come to understand how much his own father had failed him, and how much his new one loved him dearly. "How many ice-baths did your dad throw you in? How many times did he lock you in your room and not speak to you like you were some sort of disobedient dog?"

Gregory looked a little confused. "You're crazy. My dad never did _any_ of that stuff."

Perhaps he hadn't, not up until that night, anyway. "But he sent you to sleep in the back yard."

"He didn't mean it."

Wilson wondered when the room had grown so cold or he so hot. "He would have hurt you, Gregory, he _would_ have, and I couldn't bear to leave you there, knowing that."

"You don't know that." Gregory started to cry cold silent tears, teenage tears - not a sniffle came along with them. "You took me away from my parents and you didn't even _know_ them, and I hate you for it."

Wilson tried to gather back some of his calm and resolution that things would still be okay; that he could somehow make it all okay between them. He loved Gregory and would do anything for him. Why can't that be enough? "Be that as it may, you're my son now and you're going to do what I say. I know what's best for you."

Gregory violently wiped away his tears, seemingly furious that they had fallen at all. "No I don't." Gregory's countenance shifted, becoming stealthy, threatening, vengeful. "And you can't make me, because if you do, I'll go to the police and tell them what you did. They'll arrest you as a child abductor."

Gregory took a deep, shaky breath as though he were fearful of the things he had just said and was about to say. He took two steps back. "I'll bet there were posters about me all over the place when I went missing. I'll bet my parents tried to find me, but you'd already taken me too far away." Gregory took another step back toward the apartment door. "I can do what I want and if you try to stop me or tell me what to do anymore, I'll tell the cops that you stole me." Gregory's eyes bugged in fear for his next words. Fear, yet he said them anyway. "Maybe I'll even tell them that you're a pedophile. I'll say you've been sleeping with me - forcing me to have sex."

Gregory's intelligence was shining through now, bright as a search light on a prison wall. "You'll go to jail." He added quietly, the hatred and fury in his voice soft but unmistakable. The fear in his eyes for this step he had just taken defined and hard-edged. Gregory was swimming through the miasma of his life and was splashing some of its entrails onto the man he saw as the cause. Dad or not, years together or not, Gregory felt alone. He felt discarded. "They'll lock you up."

Had Wilson been able to gather together a coherent thought, he would have begged for Gregory's forgiveness, or sobbed. But all he could do was allow his body to go where it wished, and where it wished was to sink down the wall onto his backside in the apartment hallway. His strength was gone, his will sucked from him by his son's painful words and stricken face. Gregory hated his life. Maybe he hated himself, too.

"Gregory," Wilson managed to speak. "I-I'm so sorry, but I couldn't leave you there, I just _couldn't_." He begged softly for understanding. "I loved you too much for that."

Gregory looked at him, but there was no sympathy in his eyes. Gregory House had been torn in two, Wilson realized, that fateful night when he was three. He had rescued Gregory with every intent on helping him, only to end up hurting him himself. However good his intentions had been, little good had come of it.

Gregory grabbed his bomber jacket with the baseball logo and walked to the apartment door. "I'm going to go stay with Taylor. He has his own apartment now." He opened the door and said his parting words. "I _hate_ you."

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Part V asap


	5. Chapter 5

AMENDMENT

Part V

By GeeLady

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**._Story contains some paranormal-ish events._

**Pairing:** Father-child, family difficulties.

**Rating:** **ADULT!** Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction. Drug addiction.

_**CAUTION!**_ In a later chapter there will be a **character "death"** _**warning**_ (but not **really** a character _**death!**_ Those who've read other stories of mine understand what I mean).

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

The **Kabbalah** I do not pretend to truly understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

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Kabbalah

**Geburah is the sphere of severity and war; such adversity is implied in the term Ma'on, meaning refuge. It is a place of peace in a land of war.**_ "Find this heaven in your heart; all things must be judged according to their nature and actions, and all things annihilated in the act of love with their opposite, but the emptiness of this sanctuary is exempt. This is the secret place in the hearts of all men and women which is beyond suffering.__"_

_-_

_-_

_-_

"Dad?"

Wilson forced himself not to react. It was the first time he had heard from his son in almost two months. Since that night walking out of the apartment, Gregory had not spoken to him or taken his calls, and the last time, of twenty attempts, that Wilson had placed a call himself, he had gotten a recorded message from the phone company that Taylor's phone had been disconnected.

"Gregory." Wilson tried to sound casual but happy. Keep the voice even, don't get excited, don't ask too many questions. Hard to know how to sound or what to say when your son thinks you're not his father and hates you. He wanted to gush into the phone and beg Gregory to come home but that would only spook him, and then he might not hear from his son ever again. "Um, how are you? Everything all right?"

"Yeah."

"I miss you." Just a little gush. "How's school?"

"It's good. Um, listen, do you think you might be able - could you spot me some money, maybe? Like until maybe payday? - I got a part-time job - "

"Really?" A job meant his school work would probably suffer. Wasn't he getting enough to eat? "Um, that's good." Best to be encouraging, though. "Doing what?"

"Stocking shelves at the Food-Mart, but I don't get my first paycheck until the end of the month."

It was March tenth. Money was three weeks away. "Sure. How much do you need?" There would be his portion of the rent, food, utilities, school supplies, clothes..."Would five hundred be enough?"

Surprised, "Yeah, that'd be great."

Wilson could imagine Gregory sitting at a kitchen table dirty with coffee rings, maybe empty beer bottles on the counter, sink piled with scummy dishes, drug paraphernalia, an un-swept floor. That's how a lot of young men lived. Was there heat in that bachelor pad? Was Gregory thinner? Or sick? Wilson thought maybe he was losing his mind. "How do you want- I mean do you want to pick it up?" Please say yes. Please come home so I can at least have a look at you? Apologize in person, make this all go away somehow.

"Nah. You can just leave it in the mail-box if that's okay? I'll pick it up on my way home from school."

"So Taylor's giving you a ride every day?"

There was a small pause. "Well, sometimes I take the bus, or walk."

The Junior High school was two miles from Wilson's house, and at least three from Taylor's parents place. But where was Taylor's apartment? So far Gregory hadn't offered his dad an address, not even Taylor's own parents knew where their son lived.

However, this was San Francisco, and if you were smart, there were places you didn't walk through alone. Not when you weren't even fifteen yet. "You know, I don't mind dropping you off and picking you up every day. You don't have to come here if you don't want to, I could just drop you at home. No pressure." Wilson waited with baited breath. His heart was pounding. He never thought it would be so goddamn painful not to see his troublesome son every day.

He had only ever suffered under this kind of agonizing worry with one other person, and that had been House. House had been such a -

Wilson was struck with how upside down his thinking had become. Gregory was House. But then again, he wasn't. Gregory was his son. He was growing into a different House. Wilson hoped, a better one. Happier. Really, he wasn't House at all, not at all...

When Gregory didn't answer his answer his last question - "Do you still hate me?"

Gregory said. "No. But I still don't want to come home."

Wilson felt both relieved and wanted to cry like a baby. "Will you do me just one favor? Will you call me once a week and tell me how you are? I r-really need to know that you're okay."

Almost a whine - "I'm _okay_, Dad."

Dad. Gregory was using the "D" word and he didn't hate him. At least he said he didn't. Wilson wasn't positive he meant it, but it was way better than silence. "I know, but give your fussy old man a break. Just this one thing, okay?"

"Sure."

Wilson sat down and wrote out a check for five hundred dollars and was about to sign it, when he tore it in two and started again. He'd rather Gregory have too much than too little, and wrote on the dollar amount line _Seven hundred_.

-

-

"This is Vice-Principal Edmundson."

"This is Doctor James Wilson. My son, Gregory Wilson attends your school. I was just hoping to discuss..." Wilson hated going behind Gregory's back, but he needed to know how his son was doing. Not just in his life but in school. Gregory said he was doing fine, but was he really? Or was he having troubles? Suppose he was failing classes? How could he get into college? Gregory had said he'd gotten laid off of his job at the Food Mart, and hadn't called home for weeks. His third round of borrowed money must have run out days ago. Still, he hadn't called. "I wanted to discuss Gregory's grades. I wasn't able to attend the last parent-teacher discussion day, so-"

"-Gregory has not been attending school."

As news went, it was bad news. Not the worst, but bad enough. "I beg your pardon? N-not in school? But he's told me about reports and things-"

"I can't speak to that, but our records show that Gregory has not attended any classes for over six weeks."

"Why didn't anyone call me about this?"

"Several messages have been left on your answering machine."

Wilson glanced over at the small machine near the hand-set upright charger. No blinking light. No messages. But then Gregory still knew his home number of course. He could have been dialing in while Wilson was at work and erasing any messages from the school. The deceit only hurt a little bit less than the silence. "I see."

"This does mean an automatic suspension." Misses Edmundson went on. "And if he cannot make up his classes and assignments prior to the start of school in the fall, we will have no choice but to expel him."

Wilson hung up and dialed the Food-Mart. It was only six-thirty and they stayed open until nine, so the manager should still be there. Or someone. "The ringing at the other end finally came to a halt with "Pharmacy."

"Hello. I need to speak to the manager, or someone in charge. I'm trying to find out about my son who used to work there."

"One moment while I'll transfer you to customer Service."

Another tinny voice got on the line, and Wilson explained why he was calling once more.

"I can't really disclose information about any former employee-"

"- he would have been about fifteen years old. An after school shelf stocker. Gregory Wilson. He said he got laid off."

There was a moment of silence. "Well, we've had no lay-off's, sir. One person was fired a month a go..."

Gregory? "Look, I'm his father. I don't care about his pay checks and I'm not looking for his bank account number. But can you at least tell me why he was fired?"

"I said I can't tell you anything about who was fired or why. But this store has had trouble with _thieves_, like other stores do. People braking into tills and stealing money etc..." She heavily underlined the word thieves. Gregory had not been on anyone's favorite list after that, if it were true. "He stole money?"

"Sorry." She said airily. "Can't say." Wilson never-the-less knew everything now. Skipping school, pilfering money from the registers...what else was his son getting in to?

-

-

Taylor opened to the steady banging on his front door.

Taylor's apartment was a decrepit house sandwiched between two four-story apartment buildings near Mission Street in a seedy neighborhood crawling with street drugs and crime. By sheer blind luck Wilson had spotted Taylor walking from the slightly more affluent streets south of Nob Hill to the poorer areas of Market Street and Little Saigon. He had followed the young man in his car by creeping along half a block away.

Wilson waited until Taylor disappeared inside to the old dwelling that needed the front steps repaired and good coat of paint, and then marched up to the front door, bolding knocking until it was answered.

Taylor recognized Gregory's father right away. "Mister Wilson." He seemed genuinely surprised. "Um, hi."

Wilson nodded, trying to look past him into the hallway and beyond. "Hello. I'm here to see Greg'." Taylor always called his son Greg. The more formal Gregory was probably considered un-cool among the younger generation.

"Um, he's not here."

"Do you know where he is?"

"At school."

Bold faced, punk-ass lie. "No he isn't. I know he hasn't been in school."

"I mean he must be at work, then."

Wilson was wasting his time with Taylor. "I also know he lost his job. Is. He. Here? 'Cause I'm not leaving until I see him."

Evidently Taylor didn't want some middle-aged man hanging around or he didn't care to keep up the ruse any longer. "He's probably upstairs. Not sure. Look for yourself."

Some friend, Wilson thought as he climbed the stairs. Dirty clothes were strewn between the one bathroom and two of the three bedroom doors. Wilson heard grunting an groaning, the gasps of two people having sex. He hoped that was somebody else's afternoon romp. Gregory was just _fifteen_.

Wilson opened the door without ceremony and caught sight of a girls ass rocking for all she was worth atop his son. Gregory was still momentarily lost in the white lightening of the girl's tight, hot vagina and didn't even notice dear old dad was looking at him in shock and disapproval.

But suddenly the girl noticed they were no longer alone and screeched, jumping off the bed. She hustled her boobs passed the creepy voyeur in the doorway, and Wilson could see now that she was no teenager. The female was twenty-five if she was a day. She retreated to another bedroom and closed the door, leaving an un-finished, complaining fifteen year old behind. "Marnie-e-e, where're you going? Come o-o-n!"

Then Gregory noticed his dad. He whipped the sheets up over his nakedness. Wilson had seen enough to notice that his skinny son had filled out a little, but was still hardly more than a kid. "Dad - what the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm here because you haven't called me in two months. And because I had no idea if you were dead or alive."

"Well, now you've seen me. Enjoy the show?"

"No." Wilson was so angry and so terribly disappointed. He watched Gregory slip into some jeans and pad to the bathroom slamming the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing, Gregory?" Wilson called through the door. "You quit school. You lost your job because of theft, and now you're screwing some street skank?" What diseases did she have? "Are you at least using protection?"

Gregory opened the door, he was red and fuming. "That's none of your damn business." Wilson noted the slight peppering of red freckles over his son's nose and the minor acne he still struggled with. His hair was uncombed, unruly curls. But the one thing Wilson noticed above all else was the dilated pupils. Wilson took his son's arm as he tried to shove by. "Are you still doing drugs?" What now? Was he shooting up? Wilson grabbed each of Gregory's arms and checked for needle tracks. There were none. "Hash? Acid? Meth'? Do you know where that will _lead_?"

"It's none of your fucking business."

But that's how it happened. Kids way too young to know the world was a suck-fest and not out to give them a great life, got on their own and with no one else to emulate or learn from, they often took to pussy, dick and mind-altering drugs as soon as they were introduced to them. It was a sad, destructive way of being part of the group. Of belonging somewhere. "Yes it is. I'm your father."

"You were my _keeper_. Not anymore. I can take care of myself."

"Right. Living in the slums, screwing hookers, smoking crack, great way to take care of yourself." Wilson grabbed a random backpack off the floor and thrust it at him. "Pack. You're coming home with me."

Gregory took it and flung it against the wall. "No I'm not."

"You're not even fifteen. How do you expect to live without money or a job?"

Gregory pulled a tee-shirt over his head. "I've done fine so far."

Wilson hated to sound like a judge who expected only the worst from his son, but - "Oh?? How?"

"None of your business."

"You don't have any money, do you? Is Taylor footing the bill for all this..._success_?" Wilson asked sarcastically.

Gregory stared at his interfering father. "You here for the seven hundred? 'Cause if that's what you want - " Gregory began rummaging madly through his few possessions; loose clothes, bags and other items scattered haphazardly across the room. He finally found what he was looking for stuffed in a sock among some clean-looking clothes. Not even counting it, he thrust a wad of cash at his father. " - then _here_. Keep the change. Just take it and get the hell out."

Wilson looked at the cash. Without even counting it, he could see it was over a thousand dollars. "Where did you get this kind of money? What the hell are you doing?" My god - was he committing robbery now and not just petty theft? If so, Taylor had got him into it. Did his son stick a gun in someone's face and take their last cent of cash? Wilson felt like the world had just taken a big bite of sanity as a father. "Oh my god, what the hell has gotten into you? Why are you throwing your life away?"

"What the fuck do you care? Just take the fucking money and get out!" Gregory shouted.

"No, I'm not leaving unless you come with me." Wilson knew he was drawing a line. How was he supposed to make Gregory come home with him anyway? He had no idea, no way to force him. But his son staying in this drug and herpes infested hole was unthinkable.

"Well I'm not going to, so you may as well leave."

Could he wrestle him to the car? Assuming the car was still where he had parked it. Bribe him? Threaten to call the authorities? That might land Gregory in foster-care. All the fight suddenly went out of him and Wilson took a deep breath to get back some courage. "Please, Gregory. Pl-e-a-s-e come home with me."

If Gregory was affected by his father's sad countenance and plea, he didn't show it. "No. Go home, dad. Just go home."

This couldn't be the life he really wanted. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing." The few seconds of truce was over. "I'm never coming home. I'm fine."

Wilson stared at his son in a desperate anguish only a father can feel. "I can't leave you here. To get me to leave, you're going to have to shoot me or call the police."

Gregory pressed his lips together. Funnily enough, that seemed to do the trick, and suddenly his son shouted _"FINE!",_ grabbed a back pack and shoved a few items in it. "You want to go, let's go."

It was a new sort of bribery, Wilson knew. Playing on his son's feelings for him, if any existed. He was relieved to learn that a few still did. "Okay."

-

-

Home wasn't much different as Gregory went out for hours, sometimes days at a time and came home usually with drink of his breath, and often high on something as well. Wilson didn't know what to do but try to give him a calm, secure place to come home to, warm meals and encouraging words. But he couldn't stop himself from lecturing either. Or pleading with his son to please go back to school, to find himself, pick something - anything - he'd like to do and some how he'd find a way to pay for it.

Gregory tried school again, lasting in the system about two months, much of which he skipped. The rest of the time Gregory hung around with his new girlfriend, someone closer to his age, and with Taylor and his group of buddies. Wilson found three different jobs for his son in two months, all of which Gregory lost due to repeated late arrivals or because he just didn't show up at all.

"Why?" Wilson asked one weary night at dinner. "No school. I guess I can live with that. Don't have choice I suppose, since you refuse to go and when you do, you never turn in any assignments."

"School's boring."

"Standing in line at the Welfare office is pretty boring, too."

"I'll be fine. I'm going to be working construction with Taylor next summer."

"So this whole winter you're going to do what? Drink? Smoke pot and watch TV? Make your dad proud?"

Gregory took his dinner plate to his room, slamming the door behind him. "Why do you care what I do anyway?" He yelled from behind the door. "You've only criticized everything I've ever done. Why do you care _now?"_

Wilson followed him to his bedroom and leaned against the wall outside his locked door. This was how they held a lot of their father-son talks. "I just want to see you do well. I want to see you happy with your life."

"I _am_ happy. I'm as happy as a pig is shit."

Wilson could certainly smell it, the sweet smokey stench drifting out from beneath his son's door that very moment. "Yeah, Gregory, I can _smell_ the happiness." He was so tired of this battle. So tired of losing ground, foot by foot, year by year. "I don't want you to have to regret your choices. It's so much harder to go back and repair things later."

He was helpless, powerless to get through to him. Gregory was stubborn to a fault, and hated advice of any kind. Always had. Looks like he always would. "Once your life is full of problems, they can be impossible, sometimes, to fix."

"Maybe, but they'll be _my_ problems. Not yours."

One of his ex-wives had said much the same thing to him. House had been his problem then, and so her problem. His son was different. He loved Gregory, and wanted so much for Gregory to be happy. "I just want you to be happy. Why is that so bad?"

"It's not. But maybe what I want for happiness isn't what you want?"

"What do you want?"

Gregory didn't answer this time. Then, "I don't _know_." He said. It was a foot-stomp word. Then "But I will."

Should he broach it? "Gregory? I was hoping you'd agree to come with me to see a counselor. A therapist. He works with families, helps people sort things out, communicate better. I'd really like it if we could go together."

"I'm not going to go and see some lame-ass fucking therapist." Not yelling. Not angry. Just determined. His own way or the highway, that was it and that was all.

Wilson returned to the kitchen, sick at heart. He'd go by himself. He was hoping for brilliance now, from someone. His own lack of parenting ability or stupidity sure as hell had blown the whole works. Maybe someone else could help him fix it.

Wilson washed dishes methodically, without even thinking about it, his mind blank. He felt like a failure. A loser dad. Had he known had hard it was to raise a child, to try and keep their paths straight, to lead them by example, only to see much or all of it fail...

How did people do it? How did parents - those miracle workers - turn their little bundles of school yard bruises, dirty nails and scuffed knees into lawyers and doctors, electricians and nurses - congressmen? There had to be a magic to it or something. Where Gregory was concerned, nothing he did seemed to have been the right decision.

Wilson thought of his own parents. A good family. Affluent but not rich. Raised in the Jewish faith but in a reformed, modern congregation. His brothers had all been encouraged to pursue high ideals and lofty goals in life. One was a lawyer, he Wilson, had become the family doctor. Danny had been the only failure and that hadn't been his parents or Danny's fault.

Yet, with all that positive influence and mostly happy upbringing, Wilson himself had grown up finding building open, honest relationships extremely difficult. He had acted happy in all three marriages, but not been happy. With Amber he remembered some genuine contentment and even some joy. After she died, he'd felt even more with House for that short, wonderful year.

But maybe no one was really ever happy. Maybe all anyone ever achieved was a level ground where things were as good as they were going to get, and then lived with that reality. Wrung any small amount of joy they could out of the minutes they did have that didn't wholly suck. Suddenly Wilson felt a terrible longing to see House, the older, scruffy grumpy version who criticized his morning hair routine, but adored him. then he felt guilty for wanting that since House, or Gregory, was right there with him, just down the hall.

House but not House. Gregory but not the Gregory he imagined he ought to have raised, had he done anything right. "Gregory." He said. "I made cherry pie for dessert." His son loved cherry pie. A bribe.

Gregory didn't answer. Finally Wilson gave up, walked down the hall and tried Gregory's door. It was unlocked. A cool wind blew in through the window, teasing the sheer curtains aside. They lived on the first floor of a six story apartment building. Gregory's duffle bag was gone, plus his shoes and his favorite pillow. He had run away again.

-

-

House was bearing down on his flesh, covering his body with his own, writhing in his scandalous wish to fuck him senseless. Wilson kissed back, clamping onto House's lips with his own, not letting go for a moment, not even to breath.

But for House it was never enough. Never deep, intense, frenzied, or erotic enough to satisfy. House's craving for Wilson was a blazing heat that led to the extreme of sexual hunger, as though House were trying to crawl inside him and make a nest, so he could grow there, his unfathomable, clamorous mind ever looming in the background, his pressing need demanding, distressing, vanquished by no sweet words or famished flesh. Never-ending. Continuous. Bottomless.

And his ache for Gregory House was a lock and chain to his very survival. It was life itself. Identity and meaning. Love that immense was unhealthy. Someday it would kill him.

Against sound reason, and whereas it would bring him to his death, the exquisite ache of want and the buzz of sexual anticipation rose and rose in Wilson, and with House there above him, inches from his face and seconds from releasing him from the sweetest prison ever, his balls tightened, his cock shuddered like a limb in a violent wind. He groaned when House said his name and he responded in kind. "House, oh-my-god-House, I fucking love you so much. I miss you so much. I _**loved**_ you both so much. But it was never enough. I failed you. I failed _him_. I'm so sorry." Then the mind-scattering lust took him elsewhere, back to a more pleasant time and place. "Fuck me harder, baby. Forever, forever..."

Wilson awoke in a sweat and to a pounding heart. By the sticky feeling at his groin, he had come in his sleep. Sitting up, he fumbled for a tissue and wiped himself off. He sat in the dark and thought about it. It was the first erotic dream he'd had about House for over a decade, and because it was House, and Gregory was his son, and they were the same (though not), it shamed him.

It was one of the very few times he had thought about his old lover and friend. And for longer years than that, he hadn't come up into his mind much beyond a casual thought. He had rarely spoken his name aloud or in silence, or in his own mind, in the many moves and trials he had gone through as a parent these last ten years. Wilson felt a stab of conscience that he had actually almost forgotten about his old friend. Yet he still had Gregory, didn't he, at least in name? But he had not heard from his son for over a year. When would he see his son again, he wondered.

Too many years, too much hurt to even find the strength to worry about it. The hole in his heart where House had been, was now vacant. The cavern in his soul where his son had lived for seventeen years was a waste-land. But it didn't really matter anymore. Nothing really mattered.

As with most sleepless nights, Wilson walked his apartment for a while until he was too physically tired to take another step. Then crawled into bed again and slept unsettling dreams of faces he did not recall knowing, and places he could no longer clearly remember.

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Part VI asap


	6. Chapter 6

AMENDMENT

Part VI (Final)

By GeeLadyf

**Time-line:** Post-Mayfield.

**Summary:** Altering one thing in the past can change everything. House and Wilson. SLASH. Angst, Hurt-comfort. Warning! Primary character portrayed (in part) as a **child**._Story contains some paranormal events._

**Pairing:** H/W Father-child, family difficulties.

**Rating:** Adult (just in case I decide to put in some W/H nookie). Some swearing. Possibly violence. Mentions of child abuse and child abduction.

_**CAUTION!**_ For **THIS** chapter there is a **character death** _**warning**_ (but not _**really**_ a character death! Those who've read other stories of mine understand what I mean).

**Disclaimer:** The cutie with the stuffed horse doesn't belong to me, neither the guy with the cane...yadda, yadda...

The **Kabbalah** I do not pretend to truly understand - but I found it a rather fascinating read, and realized it suited perfectly for this story. All errors and sloppy applications of the Kabbalah and its teachings to the events in Amendment are on me, with apologies.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXf**

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Watching Gregory ostracized from school-mates, seeing him fail at sports and sit by himself on weekends, knowing that he felt friendless and alone, watching his body change as he grew up awkward and leggy, thin and clumsy, even seeing him everyday struggling to overcome the nameless shadow that permeated his heart and stained his young life, even that was dust on the scales to this.

Wilson sat beside his son in the emergency room of Mercy Hospital. Gregory had been brought in, his airway cleared of vomit, his breathing stabilized, his stomach pumped of the fist full of narcotics and what-not he had swallowed trying to end his own life.

Wilson had found himself perched on the knife-point of a pain so profound, it left him mute. No words were enough to describe his helplessness and the pain that filled him, body and soul, to see his son like this. To know his son had wanted to die. Gregory had found his exit and stepped through rather than seek help to a new road.

Rather than speak to his father.

Wilson held his son's limp hand in his own two, and prayed for the first time in forty-five years, for God to do something - anything - to save his son. The way things had been going, though, he really didn't expect an answer. Hope had taken a back seat a long time ago.

Gregory finally stirred,opened his eyes and the first thing they fell upon was his father's anguished face bending over him, his eyes bloodshot. Wilson blinked to keep the water-works at bay and tried his best to smile down at his beloved only child. "Hey. Gregory? It's your dad." He said, hoping the drugs had not taken his son beyond hearing him.

Gregory stared back dully, but there was recognition there. Tension drained from Wilson's shoulder's as his son looked back at him, and blinked. "How are you feeling?"

The nose prongs fed him extra oxygen while not interfering with his speech. "Like crap." He whispered.

Wilson could not stop a tear or two, but wiped them away with the heel of his left hand. His right never let go of his son's fingers for a second. "Why did you do this, Gregory? Why didn't you come to me?" Trying to lighten it, "I'm not so bad, am I?"

Gregory sighed and shook his head, but he didn't answer.

"The doctor's want to keep you here for a few weeks. They're going to transfer you to Unit 21." Wilson hated to see it but if it would save his son's life... "That's the psychiatric ward. They need to make sure you're physically fine plus they want you to talk to someone." Better there than with Tyler or even at home with him. At home, he couldn't make Gregory talk about anything. In the Unit they could hold him indefinitely until he did talk. Until he was helped to work through whatever his problems were. It was the best and safest place for him.

Gregory sighed again. "I'm tired." was all he said before his eyes closed again.

-

-

His patient was doubled over in his padded chair, trying to control his breathing, unable to articulate why he was so anxious, upset and depressed.

Doctor Carl Chang had seen this before. But he had a suspicion that this patient was special. He was a male soon to be eighteen years old, slim though filling out somewhat and tall. Very tall, having already reached his full adult height at almost six foot-three.

That could be a distinct advantage to a fully grown man in life, as height tended to command respect and a healthy fear. But it could pose difficulties for that man while still young. The very physical overshadowing could make it awkward for a parent to talk to that child about anything personal. When a child stood eye-to-eye, or taller, he no longer seemed to be a child, and therefor a person no longer requiring any help.

But his height was where Gregory Wilson's resemblence to an adult ended. Emotionally he was little older than perhaps eleven or twelve. His mental assesment, however, had shown him to be especially bright. Doctor Chang's newest patient was a very intelligent, very emotionally disturbed, profoundly unhappy young man.

So far that young man had told him nothing relevant, except that he didn't know why he had tried to kill himself. "Just try to breath slowly. Big breaths in, and out." Chang gently advised. The hyperventilation in this case was a reaction to stress. Gregory no doubt felt trapped. He was being forced to discuss his deepest self to a stranger, and he didn't want to.

His patient, however, listened to his advice and tried to slow don his respirations. After a few minutes, Gregory was breathing easier. Chang asked. "Better? Want something to drink?"

The youth shook his head no.

"I understand, Gregory, that you don't want to be here, but you took a hand full of pills and almost died. That tells me that for some reason you wanted to die or at least thought you wanted to." It was Doctor Chang's belief that beneath any addiction lay an emotional issue, a trauma; something that had gone long unresolved. Perhaps unexplored, ever. Never talked about, and as long as such a trauma remained mute or hidden, then the patient would continue to struggle, and to fail. Together they would dig up whatever issue or trauma Gregory had been living with, probably for years and, with time and proper therapy, render it impotent.

Chang chewed his pencil while he waited for Gregory to bring his breathing under control. He had found his interview with the father and interesting half hour. The dad in this case (there had been no mother present since the child was three), had been, according to himself, loving and attentive - even doting. Perhaps he had spoiled his son too much, but it was the father's belief that a spoiled child shouldn't necessarily lead to an "uncontrollable, suicidal addict" had been Doctor Wilson's words. He had looked guilty for _that_, come close to tears, and then done his best to assure Chang that he loved his son more than anything and would do "anything in the world" to help him.

Chang had sympathized but, as with most cases, he highly doubted he had been given the whole truth about the father/son relationship. During their brief time together, the father had guilt written all over his face every moment, and had blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong in the parent-child dynamic. An unrealistic conclusion, which Chang knew Doctor Wilson understood deep down. Parenthood was fraught with guilt, missed opportunities and sometimes, no matter how loving the parent, even unintentional abuse or neglect. Chang wondered which of these might apply to his patient. "Why do you think you took those pills?"

Gregory brought his eyes around to the doctor, which up until that moment had spent the last minute or so staring out the window, looking at the books on his shelves, and at his bitten fingernails. "I dunno'. I got tired."

"Tired of what?"

"I dunno'. Everything. I'm sick of this...stuff."

"What makes you happy, Gregory?"

The boy obviously thought it an odd question and pondered it a moment. Even more oddly, and sadly, the youth couldn't think up a single answer. He shrugged.

"There must be something."

"I liked it when dad and I used to go camping."

According to the dad, that had ended at age eight, when his father's schedule became too busy for take any significant vacation time. He was , instead pouring money into "activities" for his son that lay outside any shared time together. Piano lessons, sports, Boy Scouts and, later, expensive gifts. All to try and forge some sort of bond of happiness between them, as far as Chang could surmise. To the father's credit, his child had been extremely intelligent and such children tend to be withdrawn, ostracized and difficult to understand. "I mean recent things. What makes you happy, or not, today? Yesterday? Last week?"

Honesty and defiance. "I like getting high." Chang knew Gregory was waiting for the older man's disgust.

No disgust. Sympathy. Not pity. "Getting high doesn't create happiness, it temporarily medicates, _masks_ pain. What pain are you trying to treat?"

Gregory looked away, his expectations as to being labeled a stupid addict had not transpired and it made him uncomfortable. "This is stupid."

"Maybe, but we're still doing this. Together. For as long as necessary until you feel better."

"I don't know why I took the pills,....I'm,...I was...sick of everything. Nothing good's ever going to happen anyway."

_Nothing_ he had said. Not even _few good things will happen,_ but nothing at all. Ever. "Lots of things in life can disappoint. What are you disappointed about? You're angry at something or someone, something you've been unable to do anything about. Nothing has alleviated the pain it causes you."

Gregory stared at him for the first time with fear in his eyes, and not arrogance. "Dad's always been good to me."

Interesting that his mind came around to his father right off. Chang's summation of Doctor Wilson was a caring but depressed man, incapable of maintaining a relationship with the opposite sex. Gregory's father had also spoken, very haltingly, about a childhood trauma his son had undergone. A short time away from home. Doctor Wilson had said, while Gregory's mother and he had been trying to work out their differences, Gregory had been sent to stay with an uncle for a while.

Chang saw no signs of an abuser in Doctor Wilson, not directly anyway, yet to remove a child from his home and the nurturing care of his mother, and then for that nurturing parent to die, would leave a child in pain and confused. A child does not know why he hurts, he simply hurts. Children also, especially so young, have difficulty articulating deep pain and how bewildering it feels. Gifts and toys cannot possibly make up for a lack of parental touch and communication. After the death of the mother, Chang wondered how much guilt both father and son had felt and if Gregory and his father had each found their own familial intimacies compromised by that guilt. "Yet you don't talk to each other? You ran away from home twice."

"That wasn't his fault. He tried. But I'm...it's just - there was no point."

"No point to..?"

"Me being there."

"At home? With your father?"

"Anywhere. I'm a fuck-up, okay? Case closed."

"No. _Not_ case closed." Chang decided to voice a suspicion that perhaps some abuses might have occurred during Gregory's stay at his uncle's. "Your father said you went to stay with his brother when you were three, for a short time. He and your mom were trying to work out their differences."

Gregory started as though he'd been stung. "He said _that_?"

"Does it bother you? That you were sent away?"

Chang could not place the expression on the kid's face.

"No. Why would being dragged from my own home bother me? I was three. I never saw my mom again. I didn't even know him, and he took me from her."

Very curious choice of wording that Gregory was using. "Your mother and father thought it was best while they tried to save their marriage."

"Right. They weren't married. They didn't even - "

"Even what?"

"They were stran-...l-like strangers." He stuttered. "And Dad had no right to do that to me. But then Mom died, so there was no point in going home after that."

"Do you blame your dad for your mother's death?"

"No, but he wouldn't bring me home."

Doctor Wilson had spoken of traveling quite a lot, then finally settling in San Francisco. Chang doubted Gregory was ever granted the opportunity to properly to deal with his mother's death. Had he been allowed to grieve, even? Parents often assume protecting a child from grief spares them pain. More often than not, it adds to it. "What do you remember about your mother?"

"She was nice. She did all the usual things I guess. I remember my first birthday party."

"How old were you?"

"Two."

Rare for people to recall things that far back. "How were things between your mom and dad then?"

Gregory fell silent, as though he'd forgotten what they had been talking about. "Um, I don't know. He,...dad...was always too busy for me, and when he was home..."

Chang frowned at the sudden drop off. Gregory's memories had hit a glitch it seemed, or dropped off the planet altogether. There had to be something he was suppressing. "Yes? When he was home..?"

"When he was home, he was always in his study or with Mom."

"So you and your father never did anything together?"

"'Course we did." He sounded angry. "He was my dad. He was cool."

Chang couldn't sort out Gregory's narrative. One moment he was discussing a man who was removed, almost a stranger, then next his dad was cool. "What happened after you went to stay with your uncle?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean did things between you and your dad change? Were they better, worse, the same?"

"I don't know. Look, this had..he has nothing to do with what I did."

"You tried to kill yourself."

"So _what!?"_

Chang had suspected a low level of self esteem. Gregory obviously thought no one would miss him, not even his dad whom he seemed to be protecting. Chang sat up a little straighter. _That_ was what had been bothering him about Gregory's whole narrative from the start of their session. The young man was protecting something in his past; something to do with himself certainly that he wanted no one to see. But also, was he protecting his father? From what and why? "After your mother died, things changed between you and your father, didn't they?" They usually do.

"Sure. But it wasn't anything I couldn't handle."

"What did you handle?"

Gregory realized he may have already said too much and clamped his lips together. Chang saw the wall come down between them. "Well, just the usual stuff." Were the last words from the youth's mouth. Their hour was up.

_-f_

"Gregory is in great pain." Chang explained to the father. James Wilson listened very attentively. He leaned in, his whole upper body listening to every word, leaning on every inflection, trying to glean every positive thing he possibly could find contained in the words of his son's psychiatrist. "Our tests show he is exceptionally bright but emotionally disturbed. Something is eating away at him and until I can get him to open up and talk about it, I think it would be a danger right now for him to go home. I'm not discharging him."

James Wilson's face crumpled just a little. "Do you think he'd try again?"

"There is always that possibility. We don't know what precipitated his first suicide attempt, and until we do and can treat him for its effects, he remains a risk." Chang studied this distressed, contradictory father seated before him, slumped over with depression, resting his elbows on his knees as though it were the only way he could hold himself up. "Gregory said that, after his mother died, his relationship with you changed." Actually the boy hadn't mentioned any specifics, but Chang wasn't going to let on. "Can you tell me anything about that?"

Doctor Wilson looked immediately wary, sitting back and crossing his legs. A classic defensive pose. "Um, no. I don't know what you mean."

"It was Gregory's meaning I was referring to, only he wouldn't give me any details beyond that it was "nothing he couldn't handle" to use his words."

"We moved a lot. He changed schools a few times."

Chang remembered his first interview with James Wilson, doting father. Multiple schools had been listed. Low grades, chronic misbehavior, disciplinary actions by the school and by the father, and expulsions. Gregory had also spent some time in Juvenile Hall. He began to drink at age thirteen and, according to his father, to use drugs at age fourteen. By fifteen he was involved in petty thieving to support his drug habits, and he and his father had not spoken for a year. After a brief stint trying it at home once more, at sixteen Gregory ran away for the last time. And for the first time at seventeen going on eighteen, he tried to kill himself.

Chang hoped to make it the last time. "Are you certain there is nothing else you can tell me, Doctor Wilson? Your son is in a great emotional agony. He seems to hate himself without reason. He also loves and hates you, and blames you and yet is trying to protect you from something. That, in my experience, although not uncommon, often occurs when there is a lack of closeness. Sometimes when there has been abuse." Chang knew he wasn't likely to get a straight answer. "Did you abuse your son in any way, Doctor Wilson?"

The man before him blushed with anger, and then went as white as an oyster shell. "Of course not." Doc' Wilson said while looking guilty as hell.

It was a weird sort of guilt. He didn't look so much guilty at the implications of Chang's question, but at another secretive guilt that wasn't in the room with them. Some awful thing that lived elsewhere, beyond his reach. There was some deep, dark creature being kept from him, and Chang felt it was probably the key to Gregory's pain. It was curled up inside this mans' son and was slowly consuming Gregory. It could kill him. It almost had. "If there is something you're not telling me, Doctor Wilson, it could inhibit Gregory's recovery. You may think you're protecting him, or yourself if that's the case, but in the long run, you'll only hurt him more."

Doctor Wilson was a physician, and so he knew these things. Knowing was the intellectual part of him. Acting was the human part. "No." Doctor Wilson said, swallowing hard, his brow sweating. He looked like he might be sick. "There's nothing."

-

-

Wilson sat by his son's bed in Unit 21. this time there was no hand-holding, just confusion and fear on both sides. "I agree with Doctor Chang, you should stay here."

Gregory was having none of it. "I don't want to stay here. Can't we just go home? I promise I'll get off drugs, I'll get a job or finish school or whatever you want me to do. Just don't leave me stuck in this nut house."

"It's not a nut house, and you're not a nut. You're just sick. Here you can get well. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"Are you mad at me again? I didn't say anything to Chang about you taking me, if that's what you're worried about."

Wilson tried to take the statement at face value. his son loved him enough not to turn him in. and he loved his son enough not to deny that one terrible mistake. "I'm not worried about that. If it meant getting you well, I'd turn myself in. All I'm worried about is you."

"It won't make any difference."

Wilson, sitting so close to his son, saw the smallest indications of the adult in him, at least physically. His skin had darkened from the childhood porcelain white to the tanned shades of a young man who spent a lot of time outdoors. His hair had darkened from ginger to Jack-rabbit brown, his face had grown longer, slimmer and there was just a hint of the need to shave. He looked more like the House Wilson had known all those years ago in that other life, where ever that was.

Each day the resemblance between the two, the older and the younger, had become more and more pronounced. Wilson's heart ached for both of them, sometimes for different reasons, often for the same ones.

"You have so much potential, Gregory. So much talent and you don't even know it. You've all the makings of a genius."

His son scoffed, angry at the big words that proved only what he wasn't. "Quit the crap - I'm a _loser_, dad."

"No, you're not. Whatever's wrong with you is my fault." He lowered his voice. Admission of guilt didn't mean he had to be loud or stupid about it. "I know now I shouldn't have taken you from your mother, but I did and I can't change that. It's too late to go back and fix what's already broken." He bit down on the last word. "Not that you're broken, I...I screwed up. But there's no reason _you_ have to pay for it."

Gregory lay back on the pillow, pressing held the heels of his hands to his eyes, pressing down hard, as though trying to blot out the memory or the light in the room or his father's face or his ability to see any of it anymore. "I've been paying for it all my life." He whispered, revealing his feelings for perhaps the first time. "You never came near me those first few weeks, you kept your distance. Gave me toys and ice-cream and talked to me about everything but her. You never even mentioned her. Not once.

Gregory keened, a high pitched wail, like a crawling insect might let escape just before he was about to be eaten by a black thing with wings. "I _was so_ scared. I didn't know if you were going to kill me. All I wanted was to go home. I just wanted to go _home_." He hiccupped, and in between hard falling words, he took in great draughts of air through his mouth to stay upright, to feel his body still working like it was fully alive, though he had not felt fully living since that night under the bush. "I felt like I was dying I wanted to go home so bad, but you wouldn't even talk about her."

Gregory began to babble behind his hands, his eyes shielded from his father's face, the darkness where he took himself; where his worst memories lay waiting for an open door, like a smoldering cinder ready to burst into flame, even that was preferable to the room of the here and now where his life was based on a lie, suspended on a lasting terror, resting on a foundation devoid of any reason a three year old could have grasped. He had been with his mother, then he was with a stranger and he saw his mother no more. And between those two he had grown a hole in him so deep and hurting it seemed nothing on earth could have filled it. "You _took_ me away. You had no right to do that. I was in that car for two days and then one hotel after another. I was so scared, I was so _fucking_ scared. Then all I became was your dirty little secret, and you must have felt that too 'cause you never came near me."

Gregory let his hands fall, and they crashed to the blanket, at his sides, useless appendages now. In his grief they were merely two parts of him of all the other parts he no longer cared about. "Then you told me she died. You said she was _dead_ - you fucking liar!"

Wilson felt the world turn over, the earth crack beneath him and his slow fall into remorse-filled insanity start. All quietly and without a murrmer, his ending had begun.

"I remembered my name, a year back, and looked them up. I wanted to see where she was buried. Only I found out she was alive up until two years ago. My mom was alive all those years. By then it was too late to go home."

Wilson cradled his head between his hands, overcome by a regret far too large to carry all at once, so he went numb. All he could manage was to utter over and over again: "I'm so sorry, Gregory. Oh, God, I'm so, so very sorry..." His accuser, his son, looked over at him, his own crying jag ending. Gregory reached out one tentative hand and placed it on his father's head.

Wilson snapped his head up, expecting to be slapped, punched, told with extra venom what a criminal he was and that he deserved to die for what he had done.

But Gregory, his own tears stopped up, his face drying, just said "But I forgive you, dad. You're right, I can't change anything either. It can't be fixed." He sighed, a great weary exhale. "I still love you, no matter what you did. But I sorta' hate you, too, _because_ of what you did."

Wilson wiped his eyes, and laughed the rueful chortle of the totally screwed. He didn't know what to say. How do you answer that sort of soul-cleansing forgiveness? What words would be appropriate? What would even sound _real_? Wilson settled on "S-so...so w-what now?"

Gregory shrugged. "Why don't you go home. They won't let you stay here overnight anyway." He pointed to the television "floating" above his bed on its mechanical arm that was bolted to the ceiling. "See? I've got TV."

Wilson impulsively hugged his son. "Okay. I love you, remember that. I love you more than anything." He stood up, wiped his eyes and walked to the door. "Goodnight." Wilson turned and looked back, reluctant to leave. Gregory gave him a reassuring nod with just a hint of a smile. It was enough. "See you in the morning, son."

"Bye, dad."

-

-

"Mister Wilson?"

"Yes, this is Doctor Wilson."

A new voice. "You need to return to the hospital right away." A nurse. A clerk.

Wilson felt the crack widen. "What's wrong. Is Gregory all right?"

"You just need to return, Doctor Wilson, as _soon_ as possible."

-

-

They led him to where his son's body lay.

"He hung himself from the television arm with a bed sheet." Had been the reluctant report from his son's attending physician.

Doctor Chang had returned as well and done his best to comfort the father of his newest, and now deceased, patient. A mental patient, the extremely depressed, the suicidal, are often, by the time they reach him, too sick to do themselves harm. Had Gregory still been in the throes of a deathly depression, had he been so sick as to barely have the energy to move from the bed, he would still be alive. But Gregory had been just well enough to conjure up strength enough to kill himself. Chang knew not all severely depressed people possessed the where-with-all to stick around for the end-game, because the end-game scoring in one's favor was never a sure thing

Wilson stood staring down at the sheet-covered corpse of his only son. It was difficult to breath. Thinking was beyond him. Understanding was for God and even that was iffy. Closure would always be a thing to laugh at. Now and again over the years Wilson had tossed those careless words to his patients, back when he was an oncologist way long ago in the faded years of yore. What an insult they were. You might get closure on a mortgage, or a breakup with a girlfriend, or over a failed test that might have got you into an Ivy League school. But not this.

The death of your only child, the one creature you loved more than yourself, and thus the highest reason for living at all, could not be settled in your heart like the closing of a book. There is no closure when it's your child. It's far worse than your own death because in your child you see all that's the best of you, and often that which is better. And even if that child was never perfect in all the right ways, he was perfectly yours and his love to you was perfect as well, and so still he was _perfect_.

Wilson pulled over a stool and lay his head down on his son's cooling body. He would not survive this. Gregory walking out the door, never calling, even saying he hated his dad, his dad could live with. But never this. "Oh m-my god,...my son. My beautiful son...Gregory, I'm so sorry...this was all my fault. How am I going to live without _y-o-o-u_??"

The pain of his sorrow struck Wilson in the guts with a pain so sharp, it sent him to the floor. Dizziness and darkness, more pain and then...

It lifted and the harsh clean light of the steel and glass morgue was gone. In its place was the rough ground. Dirt, grass, leaves and rocks. Pain in his knees for kneeling on them. Wilson sucked in chilled night air. The odor of rotting leaves filled his nostrils, the smell of fall and the coming snow was the fragrance woven within it.

Wilson tried to focus into the dark, the light here so low that it was a moment or two before he could see anything clearly. To his right was a gravel driveway, snaking around a small house and out to the lanterned street. Before him was the house. Lights in the window, movement of shadow.

To his left sat a boy, beside him in the dark, looking up at him with bewildered eyes. Curious blue orbs that shone out into the dark. Beacons that shot straight to his soul and soothed his shattered existence. Wilson smiled down at the child, his hands shaking as he reached down and scooped up the child into his arms once more.

He had not been able to hold him for so many years, not been able to cuddle or sooth his pain with his daddy's fingers. But now he indulged in all three. He held Gregory in one arm and took out his cell phone with his other. One other person might be bale to explain to him what had just happened. Someone he knew and trusted now. "Ronnie?"

"James. Did you disconnect your home phone? I tried calling you and Greg, but the operator said your number was not in service." She did not wait for him to answer, evidently not caring now, since she had him on the phone at that moment. "So? How is your little adventure going?" Ronnie asked, as amiable as ever. No mention of complaint that he had rang her up in the middle of the night, and gotten her out of bed. No action, no matter how odd, or word, however puzzling or one she might even disapprove of, ruffled this woman. Wilson had begun to wonder if she was some sort of modern day sorceress. No wonder House ran whenever he saw her. She could read anyone, even him, like a dime-store novel.

Wilson began crying into the phone, staring down at the tiny face of the marvel that was his friend at only three. Tiny fingers played with a moth-eaten stuffed horsie while those blue eyes never left his face for a moment. "I don't think I can save him."

Ronnie took in a deep breath. "You went, didn't you? You took my advice and went to see the relics of his past."

"Yes." He could hardly speak.

"The universe had something to say to you I think, but truth isn't always easy, I know."

"How could you possible know what has happened, or understand it when _I_ don't?"

"Why don't you tell me about it."

Wilson explained in between sobs and sniffles, in halting, choked words all that had happened. It was soothing to talk about it. By the time he was done, he was calmer, his agony had eased a little. He no longer felt on the precipice of falling forever into crazy grief.

"To be honest, James, I don't know that what has happened to you or why is real or not, but trust in the Kabbalah and God to sort out the universe. With the rest we just have to muddle through on our own." She sighed from over the distance, her heart going out to him. "Whatever has happened, whatever you've seen or experienced, remember that the relics of his past were and are the promises of your future. You and Greg are _meant_ for each other, I knew that the moment I met him.

"But not _all_ things are meant to be, dearest, and sometimes the things we think we know best are often other than what they might seem. We're not gods. Some things remain hidden from us, but what's _best_ for us, perhaps, are upheld by that meaning."

"Riddles. Nonsense. It shouldn't have happened this way. It's not fair, I...I d-don't know what to do. I love him so much. He doesn't deserve this."

"No one deserves it, but these things come never-the-less. I know you love him, so my question is what do you think you should do that's best for that one you love so much?"

"I think,...I think I'm supposed to leave him behind, but I don't think I can. I just can't give him back." Gregory had fallen asleep in his arms, oblivious to the anguish of the stranger who had stopped to speak to him.

"Listen, dear. Remember that you'll be giving him to yourself as well. We are all where we ought to be; the golden city - the best place for each of us. Even if we think it isn't."

"This isn't right. It's not _fair_."

"I think you've learned that many things are not fair, before you even left home. I think the universe needed you to understand that."

It was true. It was not fair that he should have to give up this precious child. But it was fair that he missed his House terribly now, as all those years of missing him, coalesced into a hungry ache in his heart as he sat on the cold ground in the dark, the pebbles biting into his backside.

Wilson whispered into the phone. "What do I do?"

"Where ever you and he happen to be, _love_ him."

Wilson nodded, unable to speak for a moment, not even to say goodbye. He shut his phone, unwilling to dig deeper into what Ronnie insisted was some sort of mystical occurrence. He collected his nerve together. "Gregory."

Gregory woke up and looked up at him, eyes big and round with curiosity. Those eyes that would see the world and learn so many wonderful things. And watch as his father filled a bath tub with ice, and cry when the pain came. But also grow up and live well, and go on to be wonderful in his own very special way.

Wilson hunched over, cradling the child for one last time, soaking the child's shirt with his wet face, unable to let go. Just a moment longer. _Only a minute, that's all I ask for_. Then one more, just one more..."Please, God, if you have any soul at all, take care of him." He whispered. No other voice interrupted. No owls hooted or crickets chirped in this leafy back yard where a small child would hurt for many years to come, and survive.

Finally Wilson set the boy down on the gravel, his tiny red cloth sneakers barely warm enough for such a night. "I think you better go back to your bush now. I h-have to go. Your Mom will be out to get you soon." Wilson's throat hurt from holding back the sobs.

Gregory did not yet know of such deep-set grief and did what he was told. He obeyed without a word, crawling back under his bush, his second home. He played with his toy, his temporary comfort of the mane and fluffy tail.

Wilson stood and walked like the dead, feeling as soulless as the shadows, back down the lane. When he looked back, the fence sagged and the leaves blew in, piling up at the corners of the broken-through back porch. The house was dark once more, its warm lighting doused by time, his windows boarded up like eyes blinded to the living.

The child had gone, too. His dearly precious son who had been but never was. Wilson kept one foot going in front of the other until he made it to the rental car. Even it was a temporary thing. There it was like the dead thing it was, right where he had left it. He climbed in and sat for a while, looking out at nothing, thinking about everything Ronnie had said.

Staring at the yellow street lights and the slowly swaying trees, Wilson wasn't sure now if he had left his car to begin with. He felt cold, but he had felt that since reading the letter and seeing the pictures. Perhaps he'd been sitting here, cold, all night long? Perhaps his chance to fix his friend or repair whatever was left of the pain in them both, lay in driving home and simply loving House the best way he knew how. House who, as deeply as he loved him, was also only temporary. _So take him, love him, and treasure him while you still can, Wilson. Get your ass home._

-

-

Wilson slid the key into the dead bolt and he pushed the door open with a creek. Everything was so quiet. He thrust one arm in first and fumbled for the light switch, but could not find it for a moment and panicked that perhaps he was not home after all. Perhaps it was still happening. Maybe House was gone from here, too? Or maybe _he_ was?

But his fingers brushed across the light toggle and the living room was bathed is soft lamp light. Wilson stepped in all the way. Everything seemed as usual, just as when he had left. He did not have the courage, however, to look in the bedroom. What if he did not find what he expected? What if he had lost both of them? It was too terrible to think about.

As he bent over to remove his shoes, he heard a noise behind him and spun around to see.

"Hey." It was House, up, disheveled in pajama bottoms and a torn tee-shirt. Sleepy-eyed but looking at him with those same blue eyes that sucked at the marrow of the world, curious about everything and everyone, but most especially about him, humble old Wilson. Evidently House had heard him come home.

Wilson stared back, momentarily lost for speech. House looked as he remembered. Just the same. He looked fine. A perfectly beautiful sight. his heart ached because of it. A good, solid ache. One he would tuck away as a sweet memory for his old age. "Hey."

"How was the-?"

"- I lied to you about the family vacation." Wilson blurted. It felt so good to tell him the truth.

House paused, but only for a second. He nodded. "I know."

"I'm sorry about that. I went back to your home, where you lived when you were three. I needed to know..."

House's face showed his surprise and some small concern at his partner's weird little vacation. "Things you needed to know?" It had to have been his crazy aunt that planted this bug in his partner. "Did Ronnie the Really Weird Aunt send you off on this thing?"

Wilson didn't answer directly. "I needed to know that you survived all right. I needed to, I don't know, _purge_ myself of the sorrow I felt for you. It guess it was stupid." It no longer even felt real. But House was. "You survived it. You did well. You're fine, House. You're fine in every way." Though Wilson needed to know - "Things weren't _always_ terrible for you, were they?" He hoped. He damn near prayed.

"No. Most of the time, they were okay. Sometimes even fun." House still looked concerned. "So are _you_ fine, after this little "purge"?"

Wilson smiled. It did sound ridiculous. How does one "purge" anything that wasn't part of yourself to begin with, and that happened forty-five years ago? "Yes. I'm fine."

House _had_ suffered, but he also had experienced those things that were necessary for him to latch onto, things that helped him survive as well as he had until now. to this day, he had survived, and even prospered. Wilson loved him for that. He hated what John House had done to his son, and what his mother had allowed his father to do. The letter she had written threatening to leave had lain un-used in a drawer. She had not left, and the abuse had continued. Yet here House was, tall and strong and looking at him with those eyes he knew were about to comically roll at Wilson's soft-hearted stare and simpering smile of sentiment.

Sure enough, House rolled his eyes and turned away. All in the universe was righted. Maybe the Fates were happy.

"Come on." House jerked his head at him to get Wilson to follow him into the kitchen. "I'll make coffee and you can tell me all about your _purge_, and then afterward..." He raised his eyebrows suggestively, "Can I have a quick little _merge_."

Wilson smiled at his friend's sexual request. He followed House into the kitchen. "Cream and three sugars for me."

"I know."

Yes, of course he did. But Wilson decided to test it just a little further. He followed House into the kitchen, wrapped his arms around him from behind and kissed him on the back of the neck. House allowed it without a twitch of complaint. "In a cup and saucer, not a mug." He added, and waited

"Did you purge your brain? After fifteen years, I know how you like your coffee."

Wilson rested his forehead against House's warm shoulder and luxuriated in watching his hands do their simple tasks. "I love you so much. I missed you."

"I know." House said. "Same on both counts."

Later on while House slept, Wilson looked the words up.

Purge: "To become cleansed or purified; to put to death or otherwise eliminate that which is undesirable or unwanted. To whiten the body or soul. To bring home an innocence."

Merge: "To combine, blend, or unite gradually so as to blur the individuality or individual identity of; unite into a single entity or body. A coming together. A joining."

Wilson thought maybe he understood what his aunt had been trying to say. He and House weren't only meant to be together in the here and now - the universe seemed adamant about it.

Thank God.

-

-

**ZEBON**

**Zebul (ZBVL), meaning Habitation, is the 4th highest Heaven of Yetzirah, and is associated with the sphere of Tipareth.**

_**"In the midst of a Golden City, with the fierce summer sun at its Zenith, I see the cool shade of a house; a home. It is my home, I realize, as it has always been, unbeknownst to my wandering soul.**_

_**I am lost no more, and even as the vision fades from the eye of my mind, and the dark clouds of my ordinary consciousness obscure its beautiful gardens, I am overcome by the certainty of my redemption. **_

_**There is a place where we each belong, a place in complete harmony with who we are, and its name, as I heard it whispered on the cool summer breeze as I flew above that golden city, is Zebul**_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**END **

Thank you for reading.

_AN: I have found the readings of the Kabbalah to be soul-soothing, peace-bringing things. As a person with a history of serious depression, my thoughts and the motivations of my figurative heart came to a greater state of relaxation than I have experienced in a while, and this surprised me. I felt a deeper acceptance of my person and place in whatever this universe and life is, however short or long. I still question many things, the Kabbalah included, but perhaps I don't have to have all the answers right away._


End file.
